What Lurks in Man
by Swiss Army Knife
Summary: Wilson is so lonely that he fakes mental illness to get into Mayfield with House, but both men are quickly overwhelmed by the consequences.
1. Chapter 1

Author's Note: When I first came upon this prompt between seasons five and six, _everyone_ was preoccupied with House as an inpatient at Mayfield. I actually hesitated to take it for that reason – after all, no writer likes to endlessly rehash old ideas. However, when I reconsidered the notion that _Wilson_ might be fractured enough to engineer his way into joining his friend… Well, that gave me considerable impetus. Then there was _Broken, _and canon threw a wrench into the story I had been carefully constructing around the framework of my necessarily original doctors, nurses, and orderlies. I'm not one to buck canon, you see, and the dreariness of starting over slowed me down; other projects intervened. Now here we are, at the end of House M.D., and as I endured the final weeks of tension leading up to the finale, this story reemerged, rearranged itself, and was finally reborn.

**What Lurks In Man**

"A good friend is a connection to life – a tie to the past, a road to the future,

the key to sanity in a totally insane world."

- Lois Wyse

* * *

**Chapter 1**

* * *

The night was starless. Instead, a mist made the lights shine from below, gleaming up from the sidewalk out of the sheen of a New Jersey rain. A soft, wet static filled the otherwise soundless backdrop. From the coffee table, a digital readout burned red – 3:21 a.m.

Wilson pressed his forehead to the cool glass and exhaled so that his breath became a fading ghost against the black surface. He watched the water bead, knowing that any self-respecting person would be asleep. Yet here he was, every ligament of his body wound tight, his eyes burning, his pulse hammering far too fast – awake, just as he had been for three straight nights.

It was only one of the things in his routine that had fallen off. An abandoned dinner was wrapped up in the refrigerator, and unwashed dishes lay unattended in the sink. He blamed the change on stress, but, deep down, he knew the truth. Depression sat like an old, weary weight over his shoulders. He knew its grey pallor, its long sighs, the tightness is brought to his throat.

His eyes fell on a frame from which a blond woman smirked. Yesterday, he had found one of her socks mixed in with the laundry. Lord only knew how it had gotten there after almost a year. He'd kneaded that sock in his fingers and thought about the foot that should have filled it – pale white, slender but not petite – and wondered how it was that the fragments remained the clearest memories.

Funny that he'd thought of himself as having moved on from her. But, then, if the events of the last few weeks had proved anything, it was that no one had really moved on from Amber.

A chill of loneliness overcame Wilson, and he rubbed his arms. The flat, vacant hallways of his apartment receded, emphasizing the empty spaces. Once, he might have expected a phone call from House, who would rant loudly in his ear while he voiced sleepy complaints. There might have been the clamor of a cane against the door, or loud, uneven footsteps, or the noise of his commandeered television. Things that were impossible now.

A growing anxiety rose, and Wilson looked at the counter on which the phone rested, his fingers twitching. But, no. House wasn't allowed visitors yet, or even a phone call. Wilson had been warned, but the impulse to find out – to _know_ House was okay – punctured him viciously.

Wilson let himself slump into the cushions of the couch. There was a faint stain on the fabric of the armrest. House's fault, of course, and no amount of scrubbing had been able to get it off. He remembered the struggle for the pizza slice, which a lanky arm had held stubbornly out of reach. It was a ploy, a dissimilation of affection. It was the way they worked.

He pinched the bridge of his nose and looked around the apartment, its quiet so profound that the sound of the clock seemed like a hammer. Unreasonable panic rose, and as he panted, trying to come back under his own control, he saw the prescription bottle. It was sitting on the table, its hood uncapped. It's label was turned away, but Wilson saw the small pills through the amber plastic.

A half-mad thought leapt into his mind. He reached over and picked up the white cap, slid it through his fingers. Thought of Christmas, and vomit, and his best friend.

Wilson let himself wonder, what if I could –

'_House_,' he thought. For him, what if I could?

* * *

Dr. Lisa Cuddy stared at her desktop computer. Had anyone been looking, they would have seen worry in the planes of her face as she leaned forward to re-read the two emails in her inbox. The first was a coolly professional notice from the Donor Committee, the other a personal note sent by a patient. Both had Dr. Wilson's name attached to the header, which wasn't an unusual thing, except that their contents contained something less then unconditional praise.

The first announced:

_To: Lisa Cuddy M.D. _

_Subject: Dr. Wilson's absence from recent committee meeting_

_It has come to the attention of the board that Dr. Wilson missed the last two Donor Committee meetings without notice or explanation. We've attempted to contact him, but he hasn't responded. You are aware that disciplinary action would ordinarily be taken in this case, but in the light of Dr. Wilson's excellent record, we wished to notify you first in case there are extenuating circumstances of which we are unaware. Please contact us at your earliest convenience._

_Dr. John Pen M.D._

_Medical Director, Orthopedics_

John was a compassionate man. At the bottom of the official request, he had tagged a personal message – _Lisa, this isn't like James. What's going on?_

Cuddy wished she had an answer, because Wilson had also been conspicuously absent form the Departmental meeting the evening before. Such blatantly unprofessional behavior was completely out of character, and yet the second email she had received was even more disturbing.

She paged over.

_Dr. Cuddy,_

_My daughter, Anne Marie, has been receiving treatment from Dr. Wilson since she was diagnosed four years ago. He's always been a thorough and compassionate doctor, and I credit his personal warmth toward Annie as one of the biggest reasons why she isn't afraid of coming to the hospital, even with all she's been through._

_However, at our last meeting, Dr. Wilson looked awful – very tired and pale. I got the impression he was trying to refer us to another doctor. I'm worried about him, and since it affects my daughter's health, I feel like I have to ask. Is there a reason why we should switch to another oncologist? I don't want to do this, but I need to know if something is seriously wrong._

The email went on for a few more lines, but Cuddy had read enough. In all her years as Dean of Medicine, Cuddy had never received a written complaint from a patient about Wilson, not even one couched – as this one was – in genuine concern. She just didn't know what to make of it. James' patient care record was immaculate. He would never have caused this kind of doubt in a patient under ordinary circumstances.

Though, she thought bleakly as she sank back into her chair, recent times had hardly been ordinary. House's sudden absence had been felt all over the hospital, like the space left by a sun that had destabilized into a black hole. His listless fellows had been reassigned for the time being, and the third floor hallway outside of diagnostics had become eerily quiet without the _thunk, thunk, thunk_ of a ball against glass.

'_Do you even understand your influence, you stubborn ass?' _Cuddy thought bitterly toward the absent House. '_Do you even realize how many people depend on you despite everything?'_

Of course, no one had been as affected as Wilson. He was taking House's barely consensual detox extremely hard. For that reason, Cuddy was willing to give Wilson as much leeway as she would for any of her staff with serious family problems, but she couldn't ignore the missed meetings.

Other things had come to her attention, too. His department was deeply loyal and had been trying to cover for him, but Cuddy knew that Wilson had been arriving late and leaving early. House's fellows had all come to her at one time or another and dropped some tidbit of information on her desk – Wilson had thrown out his lunch, he had snapped at an intern, he wasn't wearing a tie – all with accompanying flashes of concern that silently begged her to intercede somehow.

Cuddy was mildly touched, actually. House's people had made an attempt to maintain a professional distance from Wilson, but it was apparent they saw him as more than just a bulwark of protection against House's more volatile moods.

Ill at ease, Cuddy tapped one manicured nail against her desk in an unbroken rhythm. Finally, she picked up her office phone and dialed Wilson's cell. No answer, not even voicemail. Cuddy sighed as she set the receiver back on its cradle. Well, she supposed it could wait until she saw him in person. A glance at the clock told her that it was still early for him to be in the hospital, so she paged Nurse Brenda and asked to be informed when Dr. Wilson made it in.

After that, a crisis in the clinic derailed her attention. She forgot she had been waiting for a call that never came.

* * *

Chase had been watching Dr. Wilson's office for half an hour. He ran his hand through his hair, which was bleached almost white from his recent honeymoon, and leaned forward, hoping to spy even a hint of movement.

Wilson went to the hospital dining room for coffee at ten-thirty everyday. In the times before House left for Mayfield, he would return with two cups and then disappear into the glass office adjoining the diagnostic conference room. Of course, Wilson didn't do that anymore, but he could still usually be seen making his way to the cafeteria. So, on that Tuesday morning when the appointed time passed and Chase saw no movement from Wilson's office, he was worried enough to sidle up to the nurse's station and rest his hip against the counter, upon which Dr. Wilson's assistant was scribbling notes into a patient file.

"Sandy, have you seen Dr. Wilson this morning? His office looks dark."

The handsome young woman narrowed her eyes, partially in irritation and partially as a warning. He had a reputation in the hospital for being a kind of a charming slut, which his recent marriage had not yet eclipsed. Finally, though, her suspicion was beaten off by unease.

"I had to cancel two of his appointments," she admitted. "It's not like him. I mean, sometimes he'd get distracted –" She meant, held up by something to do with House. "But he always called ahead if he didn't plan to be in."

She didn't need to say anything else; Chase understood exactly. Wilson may have been House's partner in crime, but he was always, without exception, conscientious of his patients. He would never simply not show up. At least, he never would have before.

"Maybe I'll go give the handle a jiggle," he suggested, pushing away without waiting for an answer. It wasn't impossible that Wilson had snuck in unnoticed and was hibernating under the influence of a bad migraine.

Yet there was no answer from inside when he knocked. No light seeped from beneath the door. By all indications, the office was unoccupied. However, for some reason, Chase wasn't satisfied. He tested the doorknob and found it was locked, but he hadn't spent years breaking into patients' homes for nothing.

Once inside, he gazed around the shadowed space; the Hitchcock poster affixed to one wall, the towering bookshelf, the ubiquitous couch. The pale white square of the balcony door, laid over with the stripes of the long, hanging blinds. A ficus. It all seemed just as usual, except…something.

Chase shook his head, thinking that the paranoia House cultivated was finally getting to him. Then he stilled. There was a neat stack of manila envelopes on the corner of Wilson's desk, each with a crisp white sticker in each corner. Chase had seen envelopes like that once before, when Tritter's interference had forced Wilson to refer his patients.

Feeling dread open up like a dark pit inside him, Chase walked back into to Wilson's tidy desktop. There was another envelope, a smaller white one, propped up between the keys of the keyboard. In Wilson's slanted scrawl, two words had been carefully written:

'_For House'_

Chase was running, digging for his car keys, before he even reached the door.

* * *

Wilson was amazed how little effort it had taken to convince the people he worked with that he had lost whatever competency left to him after Amber's death and House's subsequent, related institutionalization. In fact, it was just a little crushing, seeing what his efforts had come to – that even after years of meticulous efficiency, of holding two department's administrative heads above water, of flawless punctuality and uncompensated overtime, and _House_ – after all that, their confidence in him could be so easily undermined.

Perhaps they had always expected that if the head of Diagnostics or Oncology went down, the other would soon follow into the other's ashes. He didn't know. He just knew that dismantling his life had been easy. And that he had fewer friends than he thought.

'_You only have one friend.'_ The thought crept in, even as he carefully went over the calculations in his head and counted out the pills into his hand. They were pale against his palm, and so light he could barely feel their weight.

He was going to lose his job. Unlike House, there would be no resolution that he could think of, no second chance. Cuddy would not be waiting for him with a department and a hopeful expression. Without House around, there was no longer any incentive for her to preserve his job. Yet, even knowing the risk, he couldn't change his mind. House might not want him there, but even that heart-stopping possibility paled beside the thought of leaving his friend to face the loss of the only thing he cared about – his mind – essentially alone in the hands of clinicians and psychiatrists.

And if it meant that he didn't have to spend one more sleepless night in his apartment with the walls leaning in like falling tiles and his lungs rigid in his chest…well. If things went wrong then it would be alright, wouldn't it?

He flipped the prescription bottle around in his palm, thinking of House and all the years when seeing him with a bottle like this had been almost as inevitable as seeing him with his cane. At times, he had felt as trapped by the Vicodin as House had been, especially when Tritter – Wilson stymied that train of thought immediately.

Anyway, he thought, squeezing the bottle and hearing the faint rattle, these weren't Vicodin. They were antidepressants, the same ones he'd used to 'dose' House's coffee. He'd been taking them himself for more than a year. House had never attempt to conceal his contempt for a depression diagnosis, but now it was a godsend. No one would question what he was about to do.

Wilson let the pills drop – one, two, three – into his mouth, and then paused to take a methodical swallow of cheap whiskey. He smiled a sad smile as he felt them go down. It was too bad that pills were the best way to have control over this; there was just too much irony.

He raised his hand. Four, five, six.

He looked one last time at the picture frame, out of which Amber's face smiled (knowingly, coyly, approvingly), and then he closed his eyes and the pill bottle rattled. He swallowed the pills, again and again, until a low buzzing filled up the silence of the apartment and everything went away.

* * *

They found him on the floor of Amber's apartment. Wilson thought he discerned a commanding Australian slur, and that comforted him. He had been right to count on Chase. Of all House's fellows, he had always been the one Wilson liked best.

People were asking him things: _"When? How much?"_

He blinked blearily up through the frantic chaos he had created and tried to understand what they were saying, but the words spiraled away, inaccessible now. There was a smell like vomit beside his head, and he regretted that. It was going to stain the carpet, and who was going to clean it up now?

Then his body seized, and Wilson felt his eyes roll back and take him away. Everything was quiet and dark, but it wasn't the same as the silence of his apartment. It was just the way he wanted it to be.

* * *

When he woke up in the hospital, squinting under the harsh lighting, Wilson almost cried with relief. He had gotten it right.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

* * *

House was living in a hell of impotence.

The detox had been brutal. The sour smell of urine, the tacky feeling of sweat in every crevice, the rawness of his jangling nerves. House doubted he would ever forget them, or the cramps, or the nausea – all of which had mixed to create a lurid memory of agony. Nor would he forget how he had ultimately broken down and begged in the end, wailing for a relief that never came.

When he had finally passed out, he had awoken to find a stranger sponging his restrained and prostrate body. In that awful moment of helpless, sick and dazed with pain, his mind had strayed back to the paltry, half-assed performance he had put on for Tritter in Princeton's rehabilitation clinic, and it amazed him that anyone had believed it.

By the time he'd finally come up from the debilitating fugue, his mouth had been one solid taste of bitterness – of vomit and vitriol. Barely able to support his own weight, he'd demanded to be discharged. They'd refused him. Instead, House had been summoned before Dr. Darryl Nolan.

House had stomped into the man's office, ready to steamroller or do battle. In the first five seconds of their acquaintance, he managed to insult the man's competence and his race. It would have sent most people into a tailspin of explosive anger, but Doctor Nolan had only smiled as though he'd been told a funny joke.

He'd informed House that he could check out whenever he wished; no one here could lawfully detain him. However, if that was his choice, he would return to a shadow life. Without Nolan's signature on the right piece of paper, House would never practice medicine again. It was at that point that House had been visited by an image of Wilson, whose earnest expression begging him, just this once, to cooperate. The thought of his friend arched, but House dashed the feeling away with fury.

In the end he'd had no choice; he had to stay and play Nolan's game. Yet if he was going to be in hell, he decided, everyone was going to be in hell with him. He'd spelled it out for Dr. Beasley that first day on the floor: there would be chaos in their precious ward, until Nolan signed the release papers just to be rid of him.

Meanwhile, he chaffed under his physical limitations without the Vicodin. He chaffed under the restriction of locked-down hallways and doors. He chaffed under all the regulations of Mayfield, and from having his decisions lorded over by bungling pacifiers who called themselves doctors.

And if the trials of the real word were not enough, there was always the siege going on in his own mind.

House kneaded his fingers through his cotton pants and bared his teeth against the sound of his roommate's snores. In the half-light from the corridor, he could see her, perched on the end of his bed. _She_ was always there at night, keeping him company in his troubled, waking dreams. Taunting him now that the drugs were gone from his system and could have no part in her appearance. She showed her teeth around her glossy lips, and he fought the ugly little emotions worming their way deeper inside him with every bead of sweat that trailed down his forehead.

The questions pinged, a relentless parade:_ 'How badly is my mind damaged? How far am I gone?'_

Amber smiled, and there was no distraction from her haunting presence. No pills, no work, no company. There was nothing at all but her and House.

* * *

All morning, House felt as though he was moving through a fog. Though he had mustered the will to be combative enough to get dismissed from recreation, the truth was that he was exhausted. His long war of attrition was not going well. He had antagonized his fellow inmates, cheeked his meds, and lead a revolution over table tennis paddles. So far, though, Nolan had not cracked. Fake urine tests. Undermining his rebellion with grace.

The limited success was discouraging, and the endless gnawing in his thigh was a constant distraction. Then there were the people. The condescension of the doctors was bad enough, but the patients were worse – Alvie, _dear God, _what on earth had he done to deserve Alivie?

He made his way ponderously to the dining hall since his cane wasn't allowed in the cafeteria. There were rows and rows of tables, and patients in all degrees of humor, from calm to agitated. Their faces were a blur to him, and it was only by chance that he looked up and caught a flash of brown hair, crowning a familiar profile that stood out like a Monet in a room full of finger paintings.

At first, shock prevented House's limbs from moving, but almost before he realized what he was doing, he had pushed his way through the rows of benches and seized the seated man. House could feel his grip go all the way through the cheap cotton fabric, bearing into flesh.

In a hoarse whisper, he demanded, "What the _hell_ are you doing here?"

Wilson jolted violently, but when he saw House, he stilled. "_House," _he mouth opened like he wanted to say more, but then his dark eyes flickered to the orderlies hovering at the edges of the dining hall. One of them seemed to have noticed the iron grip House had on Wilson and had tensed almost imperceptivity, his arms uncrossing.

Reluctantly, House loosed his grip. However, by that time, he'd had time to reevaluate details, like his friend's hospital issued clothing, his disheveled hair and bloodshot eyes. "You look like hell," he blurted.

Wilson lips pursed automatically, his eyes creasing with faint laughter lines. "Thanks, House. You're looking good too."

House's legs went out from under him. He collapsed inelegantly beside Wilson on the bench. His mind was still turning in circles, but without any traction. He wasn't getting anywhere.

"How are you here?"

"Are you asking metaphysically or specifically?"

House growled, a response that seemed to be answer enough.

Wilson fidgeted with his utensil – a spoon, of course. "It wasn't difficult. My family history was fairly convincing."

"Stupidity isn't genetic," House spat, but Wilson remained unmoved, his wandering eyes still sliding all around the plastic benches and hunched, robe-covered backs, but never on House. He scooped a small amount of flaky mashed potatoes from his tray and spent a moment sucking on the end of his spoon. When he spoke, it was in an unconcerned, measured tone.

"Depression can be tracked through families."

House leaned back slightly on the bench, wishing that it would give so that he could wobble as he contemplated, but the legs were bolted to the floor. Over the years, he'd made attempts to gain access to the Wilson family, but Jimmy could be like Fort Knox when he wanted to be. He'd met Wilson's parents. They put up a good façade, all graceful smiles and plastic normalcy, but House's career was built on seeing past the obvious. He'd wager the Wilson's were as nutty as a box of cracker jacks. His missing brother probably only scratched the surface.

Ignoring House's penetrating look, Wilson probed a doubtful slab of beef. It was obvious that his sensibilities as an amateur-chief were sadly disappointed. Meat byproduct was a long way from even the feeblest home cooking. "I guess you get used the quality of food here," he said.

House snorted. "Guess again," he answered, but there was another emotion starting to emerge now that the shock was passing. It simmered up out of his inability to decide _anything_ for himself and mixed with the sleeplessness, the pain, and the loneliness that he would never have admitted to feeling. All of a sudden, he was angry.

"You couldn't leave it alone, could you?" he said. "Couldn't keep your interfering mitts out of my life for even three weeks."

"House." Wilson's stupid, gooey eyes were as dangerous as armed weapons, and House refused to look at them.

"I always knew you were an idiot, but this is a new measure of moronic, even for you."

Wilson flexed his fingers, which trembled. "Yeah."

For some reason, that easy answer made House even more infuriated. "Did you think I'd be helpless without you? Well, I've been fine. I don't want you –"

_To see me like this._

"House," Wilson said in a wounded voice that did nothing to quell House's torrent of emotion.

He narrowed his eyes. "I don't see you, Wilson. You can just put whatever crazy plan you have in reverse and get the hell out." With as much indignation as he could muster, House surged out of his seat, wobbled for a moment, and then marched out of the hall, dragging his leg behind him like a crippled wing.

* * *

It was later in the day, and Hal was nattering on about his endless headaches to a consolatory Beasley, but House wasn't listening. For hours, he had been turning over Wilson's sudden appearance, analyzing it as only he could. It had been easy to throw out hostile words when they first encountered one another. He'd been shocked; of course he had. The flush of anger had been only too real. He _was_ angry at Wilson. He'd been furious and stupefied, but also…relieved. For the first time since he'd stepped into the building, he'd felt as though he could breathe.

Eventually, the cycle of denial tapered into acceptance. Wilson was here, and that wasn't easily undone. Nor would it be any use ignoring Wilson. He had never succeeded before, and he certainly wouldn't now with no other outlets. Finding out exactly what happened was his best course of action.

Unfortunately, he wasn't his own man. The ward door was like the hanger on a river. Two sets of doors, an automated lock, and syringes at the ready to force him down.

Inwardly, House snarled. He glared at the whiteboard hanging on the wall. The condemning _zero_ marked by his name was a reminder of where his scorched-earth policy had gotten him. Until now, he had made every attempt to provoke, to control, to subvert and sabotage. The result? He had no privileges. He was a prisoner in this damn place.

"House? Did you have anything you wanted to share today?"

Beasley was looking at him with her usual inviting expression, asking the question that he had always taken as an opening to begin his daily round of ridicule. The patients were all looking at him like docile sheep, except for Alvie, who was more like a neurotic, twitchy sheep with worms. It would be incredibly easy to pin them all down once more, to set off each and every psychosis. But… He looked up at the whiteboard again. He _needed_ to speak with Wilson.

House opened his mouth.

* * *

He found Wilson in a common room, one floor down. He was staring at a snowy television set, and for a moment he looked so much like he belonged in this place that House felt ice burning a cold path down his ribs. Yet as quickly as it came, the feeling passed, and House flopped his lanky body alongside Wilson's on the couch. With an audible groan, he stretched out, deliberately taking up far more space than necessary. He languished, squirming until he was something resembling comfortable – or as comfortable as he was liable to get these days, with his lower body one perpetual, throbbing agony. At the moment, it was spiraling down, flaring and subsiding with his new position. He waited, knuckles white, until the sheen of sweat at his temples was the only indication that anything was amiss.

When he made eye contact with Wilson, he saw the worry he was excepting, but at the moment it appeared to be more distantly concerned than fretful. That puzzled House just long enough for realization to hit him like a jolt of electricity, and then he was furiously snatching up Wilson's wrist, seeking the languid heartbeat at the same time his own hammered with realization.

"You idiot," he hissed, only remembering to lower his volume at the last moment. "You're drugged."

That it had taken House so long to realize was just another testament to his diminished abilities. Patients admitted to hospitals often spent the first few days drugged to the gills, sedated to ease the transition into inpatient care.

"Just a bit. I've already been here a week, and they've backed down on the dosage already," Wilson reassured. His head fell to the side, his mouth twitching with chagrin. "Still a little fuzzy though."

"You're a moron," House hissed. Teeth gritted, he demanded, "Do you know what kind of impact those meds can have one someone who _isn't_ depressed?"

Wilson responded to this tirade with a shrug. "Course I do. I'm a doctor. But it's the same medication I was on before. Just a stronger dosage. And they've already reduced it once."

"You deceptive bastard," House accused, but even so, he couldn't keep a note of admiration from his voice. Only when there was no sharp-witted rejoinder, but only a vacant smile, did the full nature of the situation return to him. He cleared his throat. "_Why?"_

"You were alone."

House settled back with a long drawn-out sigh, because that answer, however idiotic, it was also pathetically familiar. It was stupid, self-martyring, and possibly insane, yet it was also completely _Wilson_. In true St. Jimmy fashion, he was risking his health and career for the sake of their _exceedingly_ unhealthy friendship, and if this didn't finally prove just how screwed up it was, he didn't know what possibly could.

What frightened him – deep, deep down, where House was even capable of admitting to _being_ frightened – was that he was _glad_. He could feel the physiological reaction happening; some of the wiry tension that had fused his bones together and intensified the pain of every movement was fading. His body was letting itself rest.

To cover the reaction, House sneered. "At least you're in the right place. You deserve to be here _far_ more than me."

Wilson responded by letting his chin drop, once again directing his gaze at the television's endless snow. His non-answer was an answer in itself.

"You're staying," House queried.

"I'm here while you're here."

It was a promise flavored by an even sweeter one, because 'while you're here' implied the possibility of going home. But to go home meant… House looked at the man next to him, looking wane and withdrawn. He had done this for House. Oh, he'd done it for Wilson-reasons too, which were only ever partially selfless, but it was still something. It reminded House that there even _was_ a world outside for them to return to.

Suddenly, House knew he wanted to reclaim his life. He wanted to go home with Wilson, and – his jaw set – there was only one way he could do that.

Capitulate.

* * *

Author's Note: The inability to copy and paste is obnoxious, but I would still appreciate feedback about parts that stuck out to you as you read. I'm sorry about the delay getting this chapter posted. One stubborn paragraph was dragging its feet, and I'm still not completely thrilled with it. Take care.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

* * *

"How is your appetite, James?"

Wilson looked up and didn't know what to say.

He was sitting awkwardly against the back of his chair in the circle assembled for group therapy. Some of the patients on his floor required assistance; there was a young man who was in casts from his pelvis down (a jumper), and Mike had to be persuaded, too restless to sit long in his designated seat. Most, though, remained meekly still, staring at their hands or the tile floor, a featureless portrait of quiet desperation.

A pretty blond doctor was in charge. Wilson knew her from admission; she had spoken to him about insurance concerns and then gently coaxed him out of his watch and shoes, neither of which were permitted during his stay. They were a suicide risk, along with zippers, drawstrings, belts, buttons, elastic bands, his own toothbrush, and any number of other things with which he could conceivably cause himself harm. He remembered watching her hands as she filled in his paperwork – long, manicured fingernails, but not as carefully cared for as _hers_, as Ambers. Wilson looked down at the floor.

"James?" The pretty doctor was trying to engage him again. "You've been here for almost a week now. How are you adjusting to the floor? Have you gotten to know anyone?"

Wilson let his eyes flow over the circle. To his right there was a girl named Jennifer, barely old enough to be considered an adult, who had small, pink hands crossed over her lap. There were raised marks on her wrists – red, erratic, puffy furrows. Wilson started at them for a moment before looking at his own unblemished wrists. He tried to imagine them with long, angry cuts. Tried to imagine the acute pain of the razor. He supposed it would have worked just as well. Still, while the knife may have been right for Jennifer, for him it could only be the pills; the orange medicine bottle and the poison tablets. The prescription bottle was such a vivid image that he just stared at it for a while, until he was jarred out of his reverie by a hand on his arm.

The doctor had a gentle voice, calm and neutral. "Did you want to talk to us about how you're feeling today?"

Feeling? Wilson reached inside and touched the calm surface of his wellbeing. There were strong currents there, but the surface was tranquil for now. He didn't _feel_ much of anything. Except. He looked out across the room and could just see the television, which was turned off for group. It reminded him of the quiet conference he'd had with House last night.

Wilson managed to smile, though it barely touched the corners of his lips. "I'm okay."

* * *

House woke up the next day, downed his meds in a single gulp, and then rapped on the glass of the nurse's station to request a session with Nolan. It must have come as a shock, since up until yesterday he had shown no willingness to engage in the healing process. Yet when he was finally admitted into Nolan's office, the doctor appeared as unflappable as ever.

"This is a change," he said, easing himself down into one of his leather chairs and inviting House to take the one across from him. "Every time you've been here before, you've paced the floor and made racist commentary."

House dumped himself into the chair and spread his legs. "Well, hit the clock, _Doctor_, I'm ready to share my feelings."

"Interesting," Nolan said. He had a grin that would make any lunatic want to smack him across the face.

House fought the urge. "_No_, not interesting. I'm just tired of being here. I'm tired of being miserable." Slouching even more deeply in the chair, he challenged, "So go ahead! Fix me."

"Why the sudden motivation to confront your issues?"

"No reason."

He thought that Nolan was going to press further, but he didn't. Instead, he reclined and folded his hands, seemingly content to just look at his patient as though he were a specimen under glass. "Okay, then. Let's get started. What do you want to talk about?"

"Well, _Darryl_," House began. "Why don't we start with my potty training years and work up to the disappointing loss of my virginity."

Nolan gave a throaty chuckle. "It always amazes me what the laymen thinks psychiatric healthcare is all about." House winced, spurred by the reference to himself as a layman, which was apparently exactly the response that Nolan wanted, judging by the gleam in his eye. He finished, "How about I give us a starting point? I don't allow patients to use my first name, so you can call me Doctor Nolan. Alright, Gregory?"

House felt his cheek twitch, involuntarily impressed. He answered in the same spirit, "Now, that's not fair, Doctor. After all, I've also earned a title, and I did it by treating actual sick people."

The psychiatrist leaned forward, fingers twined. "Actual sick people, Doctor House? Because when someone tells me they're experiencing auditory and visual hallucinations of a dead person –"

"Alright," House snapped. "I get it. There's something wrong with me. I admitted myself, didn't I?"

Doctor Nolan nodded. "It was, in fact, a very interesting move. And one of the reasons I agreed to treat you in spite of the fact that you're a professed user –"

"The Vicodin was for pain," House began to snarl, but the psychiatrist just barreled over him without stopping to argue the point.

"Which is why I'm willing to consider other causes for your recent break," he said, spreading his large hands. "Not every psychiatrist would do so. We'll cover all the bases, and get you started on a less aggressive drug therapy at the same time in hopes that we can rule out whatever effects the Vicodin _might _have been having. In addition, you'll start meeting with me for therapy, and start on a substance abuse recovery program. All this, I'm willing to do and keep you in the loop. That's very generous."

He drew out his last sentence, and House was forced to admit it was true, even if that didn't prevent him from pouting. "You don't think that the Vicodin is what made me start seeing her."

His mention of _Her_ caused an immediate glint of interest to flare in Nolan's keen eyes, but he kept his professional curiosity at bay for the moment. They were still in the negotiating phase. Dr. Nolan conceded, "I believe it contributed, but I won't rule out anything without cause. However, I'm letting you know right now that I'm not interested in locking antlers with you. I have other patients, and many, many better things to do with my time than to allow you to waste it. Cooperation is the only thing I'm going to accept."

House's eyes narrowed shrewdly. "That kind of deal," he said, "goes both ways."

"We'll see," said Doctor Nolan.

* * *

Wilson had been admitted on a Friday. He remembered very little of the first few days, although he suspected that he spent most of it curled up in a bed, reeling from the chemicals that he had pumped into his body, the hospital had pumped out of it, and that Mayfield had pumped back in. He remembered a paper gown and an uncomfortable shower with someone watching. Remembered someone checking his mouth after he'd been given his meds. But those hours were hazy now. He'd been cleared as a severe risk for reoccurrence after the first seventy-eight hours, and after that he'd joined the ward on a mere semi-continuous watch.

The world had shrunk: common room, group, dining hall. House.

Wilson had almost forgotten that he was in the hospital for any reason other than seeing his friend. Thus, when an orderly had gently taken his arm and murmured that it was time for his appointment with Dr. Medina, Wilson had been surprised.

He was taken out of the ward and into a hallway papered in evergreen stripes. It made the hallway recede as you walked down it, stretching out longer than it actually was. At the end was a door, on which the orderly knocked, and then Wilson was ushered inside. His escort pointed out a plain wooden chair in front of the desk and gave Wilson a push in its direction.

Then he left Wilson alone.

Doctor Medina sat across the expanse of his mahogany desk, gazing at a bundle of records over the rims of his glasses, and ignored the patient who came to sit hesitantly on the edge of the straight-backed chair. Wilson had witnessed this kind of behavior in doctors before and knew that the wide space between them was carefully crafted, as was his casual reserve. All of it created the impression of Medina's authority.

"Doctor Medina," he began, but the man waved for quiet.

Unable to do anything but wait, Wilson's eyes darted around the office interior. Bookshelves, a leather chair, framed certificates. There was a potted plant in the corner, and for some reason its fleshy, heart-shaped leaves waxed in Wilson's vision until he began to shake involuntarily. '_It's just the medication_,' he told himself. Because sane people didn't go into tremors because of a philodendron.

Finally, Doctor Medina raised his head. "James Evan Wilson," he read from the leather-bound steno pad in front of him. His voice had the same quality as a prosecutor's standing before a judge, and Wilson inwardly recoiled from the edgy feeling it gave him.

Medina obviously noted his unease, and Wilson saw a ghost of a smile pass over his lips. He continued, "Born to Leib and Judith Wilson. Two brothers, one older – previously institutionalized – and one younger, a banker in New York. Occupation: doctor." The way Medina said it implied a coy surprise, as if he doubted that this poor specimen could really have held his self-same title. "An oncologist, in fact. That's an interesting choice of profession. Cancer is a difficult business."

'_So is mental illness_,' Wilson thought, but he keep it to himself. Even if he had been fully in control of his faculties, he sensed this wasn't a man to provoke.

"I just received your medical records from your former therapist this morning."

Wilson felt a thrill of betrayal; he hadn't requested such a transfer, but it made sense that his therapist would send his files, even considering the 'voluntary' nature of his admission. '_You swallowed a bottle of prescription pills,' _he told himself. '_Did you think they would respect your privacy?'_

"Your records indicate that you received prior treatment for depression." Medina tapped the folder. "But you showed only an intermittent attendance, and – your former therapist postulates – probably an only partial cooperation with your drug regime as well." He looked up inquiringly at Wilson at this time, his hazel eyes keen. "Is that right, James?"

Alarmingly, Wilson felt his gaze falter, and immediately felt humiliated. Uncertain where such an emotion had surged up from, he fought to control himself and stammered, "I took my medication regularly for a year."

Doctor Medina leaned against his knuckles so that they bore into the planes of his fresh, young face, and though his expression seemed neutral, Wilson still felt as though he could see derision there. The man clearly did not believe him. Nonetheless, he continued reading.

"Your therapist also writes that you are compassionate but self-rationalizing, polite but self-contained. Very well socialized, but ashamed of the stress you experience in your job and personal life. She also sensed that you were embarrassed of being depressed and suspected discouragement from an outside source. Yet when confronted about this – or any insight into your relationships – you became irrationally defensive." Medina carefully removed the eyeglasses from his face. "What do you have to be defensive about, James?"

Wilson didn't know what to say. "I-I'm not…"

Medina didn't pause long enough for him to respond. "At least you have sense enough to be ashamed," he said.

There was a sudden, inexplicable sensation of being pierced. Wilson had to prevent himself from searching for a physical source for the sensation of bleeding.

"Your psych records indicate a series of traumas. Crises in your family, divorce, divorce, lost your job, divorce, lost your practice, threat of jail time. Then there's the recent death of your girlfriend."

The mention of Amber made Wilson's heart stutter, and a painful blockage filled his throat. He didn't want to talk about Amber, or the pieces of her he had left behind in her empty apartment. He especially didn't want to talk about how he still heard her voice; coaxing him, challenging him, whispering to him –

"Three divorces, an impressive record," Doctor Medina continued. "Especially for someone your age. You know what the divorces tell me, James? They tell me you can't sustain meaningful relationships."

Wilson opened his mouth to speak up for himself, but the words couldn't make it through the fog of the medication. Doctor Medina's presence was too big, and Wilson was too small. He felt as though all the power in his limbs had gone out.

Medina must have seen the expression on his face and known what he was thinking, but rather than offer comfort, he made his face somber and firm. "I'm here to help you fix your problems," he said, "and that starts with accepting a realistic picture of what's wrong with you. I don't pussy foot around or coddle my patients, James. We're going to be honest with one another."

Wilson's muscles gave an involuntary twitch. Bewildered, he hunched inward, his hands twisting together. The way Doctor Medina was looking at him suddenly dredged up a very old memory. It was of his father's face when he had wet the bed, the night after one of his mother's episodes.

The doctor titled his head sideways, measuring Wilson as though he were something with pale, fluttering wings that need to be pegged to cardboard. "I think we'll start your program by getting you a haircut. And for now, I'm withdrawing your privileges to wear your own clothes. We'll talk about restoring them when you've made a little progress, hm?"

Wilson felt hollow.

"We're finished," Doctor Medina said.

* * *

Wilson shivered against the back of the couch. The gown and pants provided by the hospital were thin cotton, held up with Velcro – no buttons, no zippers, not even an elastic band. His paper slippers lay like flat chalk outlines at the base of the couch where he'd discarded them. He stared at the television screen, occasionally silhouetted by a restless patient, and tried not to think too hard.

"Wilson," a familiar voice barked, and he looked up at the entrance in time to see House shove through it, waiting irritably while an orderly checked his pass. He looked tired; the hollows above his cheekbones more visible than usual. Yet although he moved haggardly, there was a spark of that demanding spirit behind his eyes that had been missing when Wilson first encountered him in the dining hall.

Wilson relaxed against the cushions; it meant House was glad to see him. He hadn't been sure, even after last night.

"What are you doing on this floor?" he asked.

"Took my meds," House grunted as he stumped nearer, his gait badly affected without his cane.

Wilson nodded complacently. A system that condoned bribery seemed very suited to House. Meanwhile, his friend was now close enough to see him clearly, and as soon as he was he had the predictable reaction.

"My god!" House exclaimed.

Self-consciously, Wilson combed his fingers through the short, strange-feeling haircut that he'd been given. After only a brisk going over with the scissors, they'd used an electric clipper. It felt strange and thick now, and it stood up in all directions, molded by his restless fingers.

House's voice was a growl as he stepped nearer and displaced Wilson's hand, scraping his scalp aggressively. "You don't look anything like yourself. What were they thinking?"

Wilson knew the answer to that question, rhetorical though it was. It was a classic part of Degradation Ceremony, an initiation to the total institutionalization that was still advocated by some professionals. Because of Danny, Wilson had studied a great deal of modern psychiatric medicine. From the look he caught on House's face when he glanced up through his eyelashes, his friend knew it, too, and it made him angry. But it was okay. Wilson knew what was happening. He could keep it from affecting him. Couldn't he?

"Did you have a good session with Doctor Nolan?" he asked to turn the conversation away from himself.

House blew air out through his mouth. Exasperation, Wilson diagnosed, and maybe just a tinge of honest uncertainty. "Nolan is a manipulative bastard. He's dangling my medical license over my head. Won't sigh the right papers unless I agree to treatment." There was a long pause in which the murmur of the ward filled up all the spaces. House confessed, "He doesn't think the narcotics were responsible for the hallucinations, at least not completely."

Wilson shifted, weighing the possibility along with House's apparent confusion. Was it possible? It would mean a psychotic break, a real mental instability. Or it could mean that House's enormous repository of repressed emotions were finally finding expression. Fear of pain, fear of death, and a huge, abiding anger at his own helplessness in the face of loss. Wilson tucked his head into his chest. Neither he nor House was any good at dealing with loss.

"You okay?"

House rarely, if ever, showed outward concern for anyone. For some reason, it made Wilson feel like crying, and as he scrubbed his eyes, he had to remind himself again that it was only the drugs making him feel this way. Mood swings would be an affect of the antidepressant he was on until they finally adjusted the dose.

"It was…a long day. I'll be ready to sleep."

If he could sleep, so close to his friend and yet so far away. It wasn't possible for them to be roommates. They spent their nights on different wards. Ward Six was were House stayed. There, patients wore the label _No-Harm-To-Self-Or-Others_. Wilson wasn't allowed on that floor yet. Still, they had times like this, and that would have to be enough for now.

As though in agreement, House flopped down on the couch with a sigh and began chatting away about all of the medical secrets of the people on the floor (the staff, of course, rather than the patients). Wilson listened with a half-smile on his face, barely aware of the strange coolness of the air through his abbreviated hair, and tried to put everything but House –

_divorce, divorce, lost your job, divorce, lost your practice, threat of jail time, __the recent death of your girlfriend_

– far from his mind.

* * *

Author's Note: Okay, so canonically, Doctor Medina was a smaller fish; however, his few scenes did reveal that he doesn't mind breaking down a patient. For this reason, I repurposed him as Wilson's "bad" psychologist to be a foil to Nolan's intelligent efforts on House's behalf. For this reason, you might say that my Medina is only _inspired_ by cannon Medina.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

* * *

House and Wilson shared recreation. It was the best part of the day. This was true even though they did ridiculous things, like finger-painting and stencils. Today it was modeling clay. As they industriously shaped their pieces, they ignored the man seated to their left, who was steadily eating his way through his baggy of salty dough.

Wilson leaned over into House's space as the man used his long, deft fingers to mold his creation. Curious, he asked, "What are you making?"

"An anatomically correct human heart."

"Oh." Wilson couldn't help grinning. Gamely, he peered at the red blob before pointing to a vaguely shaped, hump-backed part of it. "You left out the right atrium."

"Have not!" House countered, but though he sounded outraged, he was scanning his clay figure furtively. Finally, he pointed to a dubious little node of debris. "There."

The oncologist leveled dubious eyes on the tumorous extension. His slow, deliberate eye roll was more articulate then words. Then he patted House's arm, feigning consolation. "It's good to know there's at least one thing you can't do."

"I'm an artist!"

"You're a musician," Wilson corrected, "but obviously not a sculptor."

The former diagnostician turned huffy. "Well, what are you making, then?"

"Clinic patient," Wilson explained, offering full view of a questionably humanoid figure with a depression in its head.

House fingered the dimple. "What's with the hole?"

"That's where his brain is supposed to be," Wilson answered solemnly.

There was a beat, an then they both folded, heads bowed over, giggling.

Recreation was the best part of the day.

* * *

The worst part of Mayfield was sessions with Doctor Medina.

During that first meeting, Wilson had been intimidated, a feeling which he was certain had been exaggerated by the blur of his early-admission medication. Unfortunately, even with that reduced, the feeling had only changed, not disappeared. Now it was a sick dread felt in the pit of his stomach, which Wilson recognized as fear.

The man dug into Wilson's psyche with a scalpel, and it hurt.

This was because Wilson was facing his demons, Doctor Medina said. He was recognizing his faults. But every session, as his inadequacies pilled higher, Wilson felt his guilt drift closer to self-loathing. Inevitably, he left that office feeling weak and wanting to lie down. Usually, they let him, unless Doctor Medina had forbidden it. He was still on a very high dose of medication, and was expected to sleep a lot of the time.

In contrast, House seemed to be doing better. He never had good things to say about Nolan, but as one as accustomed to House-speak as Wilson, he could pick out the tiny kernels of respect, however begrudging. The psychiatrist had to be doing something right.

Wilson wished he could be so lucky.

'_I can do this,'_ he often told himself as he curled up on his bed, desperately trying to keep Doctor Medina's most recent words out of his head. _'It won't be forever. I can wait for House.'_

He told himself that, and although each day that passed made him feel more and more like he was holding himself together with sutures and surgical tape, he kept his unstable emotions to himself as much as possible.

House had enough burdens of his own.

* * *

They weren't in a high-security prison, and there were places of relative privacy at Mayfield. _Relative_, meaning that although House and Wilson were alone in the hallway at the moment, a nurse was periodically walking past the connecting corridor, peeking in and then moving on when they didn't seem to be doing anything interesting.

Wilson leaned his head back against the wall, thankful for the low lighting. It was a residential hallway, and some patients were sleeping already, so the harsh overheads were somewhat dimmed. They were in their hospital sweats, legs stretched out against the floor, and House was munching jellybeans. Wilson watched him jam bauble after brightly covered bauble into his mouth.

"Contraband?" he wondered aloud.

"Nope. Care package. Guess who."

"Cameron," Wilson guessed correctly on the first try. He stretched out his hand, and House begrudgingly deposited one of the pieces – a black one, licorice. Wilson put it in his mouth anyway, chewing thoughtfully. "Who would have thought you could ever manage to be good enough for privileges."

"I didn't throw anything last night," House retorted. "I also vomited into the bedpan."

A hoarse, amused sound as Wilson chuckled, easily seeing through the sarcastic tone. "Did you really used to throw things? No, don't answer. Stupid question."

"I was in pain," House said, unconsciously echoing a very dark day for both of them.

His leg stiffened as though on cue, and as Wilson watched House rub his thigh, he thought about the first time he'd seen his friend go into withdrawal. That was back in the days before House's chemical dependency had been confirmed, when Wilson had gone to Cuddy with his plan to make House see where his Vicodin use was taking him. However, instead of seeking help, Wilson had watched his friend bash his own fingers to pieces to escape the pain.

Since then, House had been meticulous, even obsessive, about keeping himself in stock of Vicodin. In the long years since he had last done without his chemical crutch, Wilson had managed to forget what coming down like this looked like. It was worse than he remembered.

House sought his friend's face defiantly, daring him to arch a brow, but Wilson was staring at his laceless shoes. No doubt fearing that he might ask another question – or worse, make an emotional gesture – House changed the subject.

"You see that nurse? She's cheating on her diet. Diabetes type 2. Last night was a 'bad' night. And her. She's secretly hiding away part of her paycheck so she can leave her husband; he's given her gonorrhea, but he's the main breadwinner. She must have some brats. And – oh! _He_'s having an affair. They met before work and she left lipstick on his lapel. He was running late and didn't want to change it, so he's trying to convince himself that he's being paranoid thinking people will notice. See how he keeps smudging it between his finger and thumb? That's not blood."

Wilson hummed assent, amused as always by this game House played, diagnosing people's lives. They both knew, by now, that half of it came straight out of his ass – educated guesses, at best – but his unerring aim for the most private parts of people's lives often made him closer to right than wrong. Either way, it was pretty entertaining.

He remembered how they often stood side-by-side on their office balconies, listening to House's acerbic wit as he tore to pieces the people walking below. It used to be such fun.

"I missed this," he said. "I missed _you."_

"You're a sentimental twit, Wilson."

Wilson smiled.

"Here." House shoved the package into his chest. "I don't like the green ones."

The sound of chairs scraping reached them from the common area. It was almost time for a room check; then they would be shooed away to their separate groups for evening therapy. House leaned heavily against Wilson as they stood, using him as a crutch and ignoring the side railing completely.

* * *

Their days developed a routine. Recreation and meals they took together, and any free time one or the other earned. Sessions they had apart, and the long, long nights. Sometimes they talked about House's therapy, or House complained about Nolan or Beasley, but other times they didn't. Mostly, Wilson was content to enjoy his friend's progress.

Today recreation had been on the grounds, and he and House had walked the orderly paths well within the supervision of the attentive staff. When they came in for lunch, House had been moving stiffly, and Wilson tried to spare him the trip through the lunch line. One of the cafeteria staff, a stout woman in a neat white paper cap, frowned at his request for two trays.

"His leg hurts. We just came in from outside," he tried to explain, his voice carefully humble. He was getting used to living without people's polite respect for his white coat. Here, he had only faded sweatpants and a t-shirt, fragile paper slippers, and certainly no tie. "Please."

The woman frowned, but finally her mouth pursed. She laid out the two portions on separate yellow trays. "I'm watching you," she warned gruffly.

Wilson took as direct a path to House as he could manage, feeling the woman's eyes on his back the entire way.

"Pizza," House said dreamy, and Wilson couldn't decide what kind of 'pizza' he was referring to. Certainly not their meal of gluey macaroni and limp, tasteless fish sticks. He munched a roll and felt his stomach give a little lurch as it had been doing all week. It was his nerves, probably, and not the food, which was disappointing but not unpalatable. Still, he swallowed hard and tried not to think of clotted cheese and wet, mushy reconstituted meat.

House leaned over and snatched one of his crumbly cookies and popped it into his mouth. He munched on it obnoxiously. "You're a food snob, Wilson," he said, sneering around bits of debris, and Wilson turned away in disgust.

A sharp, sudden pain struck him right above his ear, and his hand snapped up compulsively to cover the little hurt. Down the table, another patient glared at him with dark, deep-set eyes. Confused, Wilson blinked at the man. He didn't recognize him.

"He's from Ward Four." House's hot breath came a little closer to his ear than he was prepared for, and Wilson fought no to flinch – either nearer or away. "Paranoid schizophrenia. He's been cheeking his medicine."

Wilson didn't ask how House knew; long ago, he had learned not to doubt the man. Unable to stop himself, he glanced back at the patient, who was still glaring at him, unblinking. Was his brother like that somewhere? It made sweat come up on his neck, thinking of Danny with an expression like that.

He came back to the present in time to see House pick up the bit of broken plastic utensil that had been flicked at Wilson, his eyes turning as dangerous as flint poised over a pile of tender.

"House, don't," Wilson said. Theirs was a meeting of eyes, strong willed blue and a brown that begged – _No trouble, please_ – and then House reluctantly turned back to his meal.

"Fine," he said. "Far be it from me to keep little Jimmy from getting his pigtails pulled."

Relieved, Wilson turned back to his plate. The smell made his stomach give another wobble, and he reached for his carton of grape juice. He struggled for a moment with the plastic cap, which finally came open with a satisfying pop, and –

"Ouch!"

This time, the sharp pain snapped him in the eye, and the jug of juice dropped out of his hand, upending over his tray and spilling over his lap. Startled by the sudden cold, squinting through his stinging eye, he wasn't fast enough to prevent House from bolting up from the bench.

"You idiot, you could have blinded him," he barked down the table. "Did the voices in your head order you to do that, or do they mostly just tell you when to take a piss?"

The schizophrenic from Ward Four was already on his feet, his eyes otherworldly in their fixated calm. His lips were two white lines bisecting his face. Whether he understood that he was being mocked or not, the hostility was plain enough. In a stunningly quick and fluid moment, he lunged, grabbing for House's soft throat, heedless of blows or pain.

They wrestled for purchase, but the schizophrenic found his victory in the weakness of his enemy. Knocked unbalanced by a glancing blow, House's leg gave, and the wild patient found his inevitable grip. The instant he heard House gag, Wilson threw his weight against his friend's assailant.

His assault was only partially successful. The hands lost their grip on House but found purchase again in Wilson's hair. Tears burned as the roots were torn, but he kept his arms wrapped around the man's middle, afraid to let go even after a knee swung up wildly against the bridge of his nose and he saw stars.

"Wilson! Wilson!"

His name being called was the first thing he understood, and then he became sensible to the fact that he was being pulled on by many hands – hands of people dressed in scrubs. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw House being similarly manhandled, even as he flailed and kept yelling Wilson's name.

Wilson tried to reach him even as he was pressed against the floor. He felt a pull on the waistband of his pants and a little sting, and almost in that instant everything began to swim. He squirmed helplessly in the grip of the sedation, a sense of impending doom closing around him. He tried to make his lips form around the word "House", but the darkness sprung upon him like a cat out of a high place and he was devoured before the familiar syllables could scrabble their way out of his throat.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

* * *

There was a butterfly bandage over the bridge of Wilson's nose the next day at group, holding the bruised, split wound together. There was also a thin red scratch across his eyelid which still stung, but neither pain rivaled the come down off the sedative. He had awoken dizzy and lightheaded, and even now the disorientation hadn't completely faded. He felt listless, and it was hard to ignore the disapproving frowns on the faces of the hospital staff.

Even Dr. Beasley's usually placid face was tight that morning. "I understand you were in an altercation yesterday, James," she said. "Do you want to talk about it?"

_She_ wanted to talk about it; Wilson could tell. He tucked his shaking hands under his armpits.

"Benjamin. That's the name of the patient you fought with. He's been struggling recently, and now we've been forced to place him in solitary. It could have serious repercussions on his recovery."

"He's not taking his medicine," Wilson mumbled, without knowing why he said it. He was fighting the urge to rock.

All the other patients were staring. Dr. Beasley looked outwardly cross. "Why would you accuse someone like that, James? You need to take responsibility for your own actions. What you did has real consequences."

"He hit me in the eye." Wilson felt helpless in his defense. He felt like a child. "He hit me, and he attacked House."

"House." Dr. Beasley made a strange smile then, condescension laced with contempt. So she knew House, but she didn't like him. Because he was her patient, though, she didn't want to say so outright. "Greg is a very difficult patient."

The way she said it made it an accusation, and Wilson felt a little hot needle of anger. "He was defending me." His chin came up for the first time. "He's my friend."

Beasley could have said anything. From her position at the head of the circle, she could have brought down a blow from any side. Instead, her expression changed to a sticky kind of compassion. She shook her head like she was sorry for him. "You've been very lonely, haven't you, James?" she said.

"I –" Wilson felt bewildered. He felt like he'd gotten lost; he didn't understand the trajectory of the conversation anymore.

"I understand that it can be comforting to feel as though you have a friend here, but if you let House manipulate you, you'll only interfere with his recovery, too."

Wilson was confused. That wasn't why he came here. "No. I just don't want him to be alone, hurting. Alone."

"Have you been hurting alone, James? It's not wrong to want companionship, but it seems to me that you're broadcasting your needs to the kind of people who won't – or can't – answer you. You might think you're doing them a favor by being their friend, but what you're really doing is enabling. You aren't thinking about what's best for them. You're meeting _your_ needs." She sat back, crossing her arms with all the authority of one who believed her words were inscrutable, correct.

Wilson was losing it steadily, his eyes burning. His medicine swung the world around and he felt sick. It was worse because he'd heard those words so many times. About the women who had formerly been his wives, and about his friendship with House. He felt another wave of nausea. Tritter. Tritter had said that too. If they could believe that – if they all could believe that, the police and the doctors and the people at the hospital – then he couldn't be trying hard enough. Or else…was he really so selfish?

* * *

House wasn't interested in therapy that day. In an attempt to be flippant, he picked up the heavy glass paperweight at the edge of Nolan's desk and pitched it handily from one palm to the other as he reclined in the padded chair he'd claimed as his own. "What's on the menu for today? My inner child?"

Nolan caught the stolen globe neatly out of the air and laid it down on the edge of his desk with a heavy thunk. "Actually, I think I'd like to talk about James today," he said.

Momentary panic traveled up House's spine. He hadn't seen Wilson since they'd both been sedated. In an effort to seem ignorant, House slouched against the backrest of the chair, carefully moderating his voice. "James?"

He was being deliberately obtuse; up until now, he had kept carefully quiet about Wilson, but Dr. Nolan wasn't one to be sidetracked. "Yes. Your friend from the ward. The nurses say you've become quite inseparable." He bent over and retrieved a file laying open on his desk. "It made me curious, so I looked him up."

He read:

"James Evan Wilson, M.D., formerly of Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital, oncology." Nolan's dark, intelligent eyes captured House's squarely. "Why, that would have made you colleagues."

House didn't appreciate the way the psychologist was looking at him. It was too much a poise of judgment, as though he were looking meaningfully upon House's wrongdoing. As though he knew anything about him and Wilson, and how they worked.

Unfortunately, anger would only have made it obvious how close the topic was to him, and so House fought not to reveal his agitation. "It's nice to have a familiar face around," he heard himself choking out instead.

"I wouldn't have thought you'd be comfortable with a coworker being aware of your condition."

Angry, why was House so irrationally angry? Why did he want to shout at Nolan, telling him that if there was ever someone whose confidence he could trust, anyone who would not slough him off onto someone else at the first perceived vulnerability, then it was Wilson. Because he was here, wasn't he? Through the infarction and subsequent recovery, through Volger, Tritter – hell, through _Amber_. Wilson was still here.

"I don't mind _him_. He's crazier than me," House tried to joke, but his forced laugh stuck in his throat.

Nolan was inscrutable. "That makes it sound like you know him well."

"We were just acquaintances. It's not my business," House said. It was one of the hardest sentences he'd ever forced out of his mouth, but he did it anyway. Afterward, he had to run his tongue over his teeth, expecting the tackiness to have left their bitterness on his teeth.

Dr. Nolan was looking at him with knowing eyes. It was fifty-fifty whether he had accepted the ruse. Certainly, it wouldn't take much investigation to prove him wrong – a call to the hospital, to Cuddy or his team. What would happen then? Would they realize that Wilson had forced his admission and discharge him? For some reason, the very idea cause sweat to break out down House's back. Leave. Wilson couldn't leave now.

Finally, though, after forcing him to hold taut with anticipation for a long moment, Dr. Nolan uncrossed his arms and said, "Okay."

The one word relieved the tremendous tension that House dared not express visibly.

"But I want you to understand, House, that while we here at Mayfield are uniquely equipped to help you with your drug dependency, there are plenty of nearby facilities for the treatment of depression and anxiety disorders. And I will not hesitate to transfer James out if I feel like your past association is negatively affecting either of your recoveries. Is that understood?"

A single nod. Another concession. Wilson had become a _privilege_. Idly, House wondered what he would be willing to do to secure his right to his friend.

* * *

That night, House went to bed craving sleep. The conflict in the dining room had done hell to his leg. It ached down to the bone, with sharp spasms of agony coming periodically and without warning. He collapsed onto his bed, feeling the cruel twist of craving for the first time _fully_ since Wilson showed up.

Hurting and exhausted, he'd turned over and waited, sweating through the pain, for sleep to wash over him and take everything far away. And that was when _She_ came.

"He's a threat to us," said a female voice, and House knew without asking that she was talking about Wilson. His eyes snapped open and his heart beat a little faster. She was talking about _Wilson_."That's why he's really here. He's always resented our true genius."

"He just doesn't understand," House refuted.

"He's a saboteur. A lovely saboteur." She affected a demure smile, batting her eyes coquettishly as though in benediction to the relationship her image had had with Wilson. "Our only friend."

Ignoring the pain, House sat up. Sternly, he said, "You're wrong."

There was no confirmation, no denial. Just the smile of a ghost. "It's a good thing that he's so fragile," she said, moving like a wisp, first by the bed and then by the door. There was no mistaking the threat implied in the sweet, smooth cadence. "I think he's cracking already."

"Go away," House hissed.

Her look turned almost pitying. She said, "I can't."

* * *

Nolan sat with his knuckles digging into his cheek, scrutinizing House. Several minutes passed before he broke the silence, saying, "You seem down today. What's on your mind?"

House's hands gripped the arm rests of the chair. He caressed the brass studs beneath the pads of his fingers. "Setbacks," he grated.

Nolan leaned forward. "You've been hallucinating again?"

Kneading his temple, House huffed. "Dreaming. Maybe. I can't tell, not always."

Most psychiatrists would have honed in directly on that admission, but Nolan was different. Instead, he looked House right in the eye and said, "Nurse Mike says you refused recreational therapy today."

House tried to remember that this man's straightforwardness was the only thing that made him bearable. He growled, "The anti-psychotics aren't working."

There was a considering pause. "They only work on a genuine psychosis, Greg."

"You don't think auditory and visual hallucinations and disassociation with reality indicates psychosis?"

"No. I certainly think that in a situation of great stress, combined with the narcotics, that you did experience a psychotic interlude severe enough to warrant hospitalization, especially since you've proven yourself too compromised to determine your own drug regime. That being said, every test and session we've had since only serves to convince me more that you shouldn't be having continuing problems."

Furious, House snapped. "I'm seeing my best friend's dead girlfriend! I lost all contact with reality! I tried to kill of my fellows with _my subconscious_."

"House," Nolan said. "You're an exceptional person, and you've gotten used to thinking of yourself in that way, but do you know how common it is for family members to see dead loved ones after a significant loss? Combine that with the head trauma you underwent… I'm not saying you didn't suffer a break, but based on everything I've seen and observed, I do not believe there is lasting physical damage."

"You don't know what you're talking about," House said, stone faced.

"You lost a fellow, someone you cared about. You increased an already unmanaged dosage of Vicodin. The mind copes in different ways to stress. But that doesn't mean you're broken." Nolan stopped. "You don't believe me."

It took House an impossible six seconds to process what Nolan was suggesting, but then it struck like the impact of a car driven directly against his sternum. Stress and Vicodin. Kutner. And now only his fear. Nolan didn't think he had brain damage. He thought it was a mood disorder, depression or whatever you wanted to call it, and not a permanently disordered mind. It was the easy answer, the mediocre answer. The result where the patient didn't die.

House _couldn't _accept it. At least not as anyone else's theory.

"I want to see my charts," he demanded. Heat burned in his words, an anger born of fear.

"Greg –"

"No! I want to see my charts, my psych notes, _everything_."

Any other therapist would have denied him. In spite of his record – _given his record_ – they would never had involved him. Patients didn't diagnose themselves. However, Nolan wasn't just any psychiatrist. "Alright," he said.

"What?" House's arguments died stillborn on his lips.

"I said 'alright', Greg. You're a very special case here and I won't prevent you from drawing your own conclusions, although I'm concerned you think too much – or too little – of yourself to be unbiased. Still, I'm willing to give you access to your workups. Even to my own notes. Though, I warn you in advance that I doubt your group counselors will be willing to produce theirs."

"That's fine. I don't need half-baked assumptions about my mommy and bed-wetting habits."

"You have to promise to consider what I said while you're doing this," Nolan countered.

House agreed. "I will – with a fine toothed comb."

* * *

House tried to avoid Wilson, but in the end, it wasn't something he had the willpower to do. Which was how they ended up sitting shoulder to shoulder on the floor of one of the large common areas with the lights turned down to accommodate the film being projected on the wall.

Dim images, ruffled by the white bed sheet that had been put up. A classic film was playing, one so old that there was no color. Wilson had his eyes pinned to it, but neither of them was watching.

Through the fabric of his t-shirt, Wilson seemed unusually warm. House leaned into him and said, "Nolan took me off the anti-psychotics."

Wilson lifted his head; he looked very tired. The butterfly bandage was gone, but the bruises still traced the zygotic bones of his face. In only a couple of weeks, he appeared thinned, and his short, disheveled hair made him look forlorn. A vivid recollection of Amber's words came to House: '_I think he's cracking already.'_

He shook his head.

Wilson asked, "Are you afraid he's wrong?"

House glanced away. However, it was difficult to shut out a person when your subconscious couldn't stay away from him. She was leaning against Wilson, pressing into his side, ghosting his cheek with her hand.

House growled, "I'm not crazy."

Instead of Amber's grin saying, '_Yes, you are_,' there was Wilson's familiar voice as he looked directly at House and said, "No, you're not."

Without giving himself the opportunity to think better of it, House dug his fingers gratefully into Wilson's arm and kept them there until the movie had run out and they were all ushered to their beds.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

* * *

One afternoon, Mike the orderly interrupted House's Twelve Step meeting to let him know he had a visitor. He was lead to a room on the first floor, one he'd never been in, and found himself in a space with a flower printed couch and pictures of birds hanging on the wall. Lisa Cuddy waited on that couch, with her hands folded in her lap and her expressive mouth pursed into a deep frown.

She was dressed as he remembered her, in a dark red blouse and a pinstriped skirt that only masqueraded as professional. It surprised him that he was not drawn to her exposed bosom, that he couldn't summon up any interest beyond a vague memory of that falsely recollected night. It almost made him laugh now; he had thought he knew what the detox would do to him. One night over the toilet bowl, healed by morning sex. He examined her now, the curve of her legs over the edge of the couch, her hips, turned towards him, her lips, her hair. He shook his head. Nothing. He supposed it did something to your libido when you couldn't even choose when to go to the bathroom by yourself.

Her dark eyes flickered when he came in – relief? – but then subdued again when she saw him holding his thigh as he limped, unaided.

"Where's your cane?" she asked.

"Not allowed with guests. Couldn't risk beating you to death," House responded, dropping down onto the cushions beside her. He grimaced. The plasticy material that covered it had no yield at all.

Cuddy's eyes, when he looked up, were moist with concern. She wasn't a woman for tears, but like many dark-eyed people her sorrow or worry or grief turned to glistening depth. Wilson's did the same thing, and House almost smiled. Lisa and Jimmy, both brown-eyed and in love with him. (Both Jewish too, and wasn't there some kind of off-color joke in that?)

The thought was enough to make something wrench inside, and House extended an unusual mercy for him. "Quit fretting. I do have a cane on the ward. Got lots of privileges. For good behavior."

"I wouldn't believe it even if I saw it," Cuddy responded, but her mouth had twisted up.

"So," House said. "To what do I owe this visit?"

"It's been a month. I wanted to see how you were doing."

'_I do care about you_,' her expression said, but he knew all about that, and at the moment it couldn't have interested him less. His world had sunk down to a smaller size. Only the immediate things were relevant. Wilson was his only connection to Princeton Plainsboro now.

"What did you put in your planner – 'Manicure at one'? Almost anything would be better than 'Visiting a department head in the loony bin'. Hard to spin that one a nice way for the donors."

It was hard to be certain, but despite her disapproving look, Cuddy seemed reassured by his sardonic greeting. "Well, I see being here hasn't stopped you from being an ass."

"Surprise, surprise. That wasn't the Vicodin after all."

In spite of her hard look, her tone softened somewhat. "How's the pain?"

"It's been better."

Her voice was pitched low. He wondered who she thought she was keeping a secret from. "And what about the hallucinations? Have you seen anything else?"

As though on cue, a shadow hovered at the edge of his vision, but House refused to turn and face it.

"No."

"So, the doctors think you'll recover. It was the Vicodin."

"My therapist thinks I'm depressed. We're working on it so I can get…_better_. Less miserable."

"That's good. Nobody deserves to be miserable, House. You know your job is waiting for you when…when everyone thinks you're ready to come back."

"Wilson's here," House blurted. The words formed without much thought.

Cuddy's mood dropped, if possible, into even more dark and unfathomable waters. "I know that. I signed the transfer," she said. "But how did you –"

House didn't let her finish. "You have to know that he doesn't actually belong in this place." Mockingly, he sing-songed, "Wilson gets theatrical and feigns a depressive fit and you give him exactly –"

"House," Cuddy interrupted. "The whole hospital watched him deteriorate. He stopped being present at work. He missed committee meetings, dropped his administrative duties, started walking around like a zombie." Despairingly, she said, "If Chase hadn't gone to check on him… House, he tried to kill himself."

"He wasn't serious!"

"I watched them defibrillate him in the ER," Cuddy said. "Are you going to tell me that wasn't serious?"

House grappled with this new knowledge. Although they had never discussed Wilson's admission in detail, he had been led to believe that his friend had manipulated his way into Mayfield. But a defibrillator, that meant –

House raged against the possibility: "He's not that stupid. He's a doctor. He knows how to control –"

"House, he could have predicted. But to be on a table…no one can _know_. Have you considered what a desperate act like that might mean, even if he didn't actually intend to die?"

Mute, House listened to her tear down his conceptions, putting new light to Wilson's presence here and the reasons for it.

She said, "It used to be that Wilson had other safety nets. He cared about other people, his job. But somewhere –" Julie, Tritter, Amber, Kutner. Cuddy let out all her air and pressed her hands to her face. "Somewhere those things failed. And now he just has you."

Suicide. The word set a fuse burning in House. He had imagined the scenario that had brought Wilson to Mayfield. He would have used his one ace skill – his emotional intelligence, his ability to court and create empathy – in a way just as effective as the way House used the unrepentant truth to make his diagnoses. In his mind, he heard Wilson speak, winding together his family's poor mental history and past flirtation with therapy and antidepressants to create the viable foundation for a seemingly earnest and entirely convincing cry for help.

Wilson was the best liar he knew. Even House couldn't always recognize the deception if the man truly applied himself. Now he had proved it with a lie of omission that House, in his own great need, had never even thought to examine. A defibrillator on a table. Wilson wasn't like House. He didn't put pocketknives into power sockets to see if there was a God. If he took the pills – and it would be pills, House could see that now as a razor sharp ray of light coming down onto his brain – if he had taken them…

"This meeting is over," he said.

* * *

Wilson looked down at his uncooperative hands, rotating the thick plastic bracelet around his wrist. He'd worried it so much that he'd worn a red line into his skin, but it was secured so it wouldn't come off, not even if you chewed it. Wilson had seen some people try.

He hunched his shoulders further in, trying to bring the world into order around him, to shield better against the shadows of this environment. His nerves were so raw these days. It was getting harder to get up in the morning, especially when House met with Nolan, which meant Wilson might not see him.

It was also bad on days he was scheduled with Doctor Medina. Wilson dreaded those mornings. He often became anxious and panicky until someone noticed and 'offered' him a lorazapam. He didn't want the medicine. Medina was hard enough to face without a groggy mind. Wilson often wished House could be with him those times. He always had sharp, cutting things to say. House wasn't ever helpless.

But he couldn't always be with House. House was trying to get better. He had to attend a Twelve Step meeting for addiction today, and another that was specifically for discussion on pain management. Wilson's diagnosis of chronic depression was unrelated to either, so of course he couldn't attend.

Usually, Wilson was content to wait, but today a restless pall was on him, a premonition of dread. He pressed against the printed wallpaper in the lounge and kept his eye on the ward room door without knowing what he was anticipating.

When House barged in, barely acknowledging the staffs' cursory glances and surrendering his cane without a word, Wilson felt a surge of gladness so rare he almost leapt toward his friend. Then he saw the stormy visage and the blue eyes rimmed with fire, and he knew when House twisted his hand into Wilson's arm and pulled him toward a corner that nothing good could come of this. Something had gone wrong.

"House?" he asked, his voice wavering on the question. In their hospital, in Princeton, in their old life, it would have sounded impermissibly pitiful, but now Wilson didn't care. Why was House so angry?

He didn't have to wait long to find out. House put himself into Wilson's space and it came pouring out all over, hot and sour smelling, bile and fury.

"Suicide?" he demanded, and Wilson's blood went icy cold.

It would have been easier if House had been a normal kind of person, weeping with the outrage that a wounded loved one might feel when they found out the truth. But this was House, and he wasn't like other people. The truth, to him, was a weapon, and he drew it out now along with his other weapons – sarcasm, ridicule, contempt. He faced Wilson like an opponent, because Wilson had deceived him, and that was unforgivable.

"How did you do it? What kind of pills did you put down your throat? Because it would have to be pills. Little Jimmy would never put a pistol in his face. It was Vicodin, wasn't it? Of course it was. It would be too great a metaphor to miss. Vidodin kills. You've been saying it for ten years."

"House –"

"It was a win-win situation. Fifty-fifty you wake up in intensive care and they ship you to Mayfield, fifty percent you don't wake up at all. Did you have a preference? Were you disappointed?"

"Stop, House." Wilson was pleading. They never pleaded with one another. It was one of their unspoken rules. But even though he locked his lips around the words, inside his head, the litany continued. '_Please, please stop_.'

House didn't hear him.

"Explain yourself!" he demanded, his voice crackling like lighting, or a long, thin strap.

Wilson stammered. "I couldn't think of anything else. I thought – I thought –"

"_I thought_," House mocked, and his eyes were so mean that Wilson shrank away from them.

House laughed, but it was nothing like the laughter that bounced off the bricks of their balcony, or presided over take-out food, cigars, poker. It was a black laughter, ugly and rife with condemnation.

"You're such a good liar, Jimmy, even I was fooled. I thought you came here for me, but you brought your very own mental illness with you. I knew we were both addicts, but I never even considered you were that pathetic."

Wilson, upset to the point of choking, said, "House, I swear –"

"Shut up," House said.

The words were like the empty, tight silence of the sea drawn back in the moment before a tsunami. All the holes and hiding places exposed. Dying fish with their pale bellies up, flopping feebly on the exposed ocean floor. And then the growing roar.

Wilson saw his ruin coming from a long, long way, and a tone grew in his ears, a single, long discordant note as the end approached. As the houses of his mind huddled, whole for only a moment longer, the soul that populated it fled, but much too slowly. Wilson saw the tower of black water.

Then the crash:

"Stay away from me, Wilson," House said with finality. Then he turned and stalked away.

Wilson was left behind. The structure of his world was splinters churning in dark, swollen waters. He swayed in the wake of this disaster and didn't know what he was doing.

"Are you alright?" The voice belonged to one of the male staff members. Mike. The man's palms were up, but he didn't touch Wilson. Quietly, he asked again, "James, are you okay? Did he upset you?"

Wilson didn't realize he had put his arms around himself. Didn't know how agitated he must have looked to attract attention. His head swung from side to side, before it finally anchored on the door. Out. He needed to go outside.

"Hey, you can't go there right now." Mike tried to intercept him as he neared the exit.

Wilson barely understood the words. Everything was white light. Sharpness. He reached for the door.

"I said, you can't go out," Mike repeated, trying to steer him away, but the touch went straight through Wilson's flesh and muscles and nerves and bones, and he jerked away, yanking himself free of the restraining grip and threw himself against the door. _Out!_

"Some assistance here!"

Hands tried to pull him away; he threw them off. He didn't hear the calming words. Didn't hear the call for help that brought more bodies, more hands to grip and hold and tug and push. He struggled, squirming to get away from the unwanted embrace. He fought the hands while his heart beat thump, thump, thump.

Then violence, the cold tiles, the burn of the syringe. Hopelessness, followed by nothing.

A hood came over the world.

* * *

House's mood had not improved. He hadn't slept the night before; had almost refused his medication out of pure spite and flushed them down the toilet. He was feeling fractious and volatile when one of the orderlies approached the couch where he was sprawled out in the dayroom. Vaguely recalling the bland face, broad forehead, and wide spaced eyes, House bore his teeth into a vicious grin. "How are things going with your pregnant girlfriend? She's a feisty one, isn't she? You sure that parasite is yours?"

The man ignored his preliminary attack. Instead, he said, "They had to increase the medication of your friend today. James."

House sat up slowly, the nerves of his body jangling. "Why?" he asked.

"He had a breakdown and got violent."

"Violent," House scoffed. "Wilson isn't capable of flipping a baby turtle."

"Apparently, something pushed him over the edge," the young man said knowingly. "He's in his room now."

The judgment in this stranger's tone had House's hackles rising in an instant. He demanded, "Why are you telling me this?"

"I thought you might want to know. He's the only person I've seen you connect with. I noticed you didn't come to see him today."

"So?" The back of the couch creaked in protest as House's weight was thrown against it. "I have my own problems without babysitting that self-destructive liar."

"Funny," the orderly said, neutral yet piercing. His eye caught House's. "I wouldn't have put you in the role of babysitter."

* * *

House was reticent during his next meeting with Nolan. Broodingly, he let his four-pronged crutch tilt from one foot to the other. He wished for his own cane, so he could twirl it. He hadn't realized before now how much restless energy it dispersed.

"You seem upset," Nolan began.

Last night, he hadn't slept. Instead, he'd spent the night lying awake, remembering the glow of the television screen while _The L Word _played, a yawning, half-conscious Wilson propped up beside him for company. Laughter as House threw bits of rolled paper from the second floor, aiming for Cuddy's bosom. A hundred thousand stolen French fries. Then this morning, when the judgmental orderly had appeared with his unwelcome news, that idealized past and the impossibly complicated present had mixed together like chemicals in a beaker exposed to heat. House felt he gases building even now, until he could not contain the eruption.

"Wilson is an idiot!"

Nolan leaned back in his chair, unfazed by this outpouring of passion. He made a noise like something had just occurred to him: "Huh."

House growled. "'Huh'? Is that what they pay you the big bucks to say? What do you mean, 'huh'?"

The psychiatrist gestured with his hand. "This is the first time I've seen you invested in the wellbeing of another human being. It's good."

"My friend tried to kill himself, and it's _g__ood_?"

"Every session we've had has been about your misery, your future," Nolan said, "but I think we both know that a big part of your issues is how you relate to other people. I'll be honest with you: I'm relieved to see you show evidence of empathy. It wasn't sure if you had a tie strong enough for that."

"I'm not a sociopath!"

"No, but you've dedicated your life to truth rather than people. In a way, it's one of your exceptionalities, but you've taken it to the point of being almost inhuman at times. Psychiatrists don't like to loose inhuman people back into the population as a general rule, especially ones whose livelihoods are based on caring for vulnerable people."

House snarled, "Are you saying you trust me more because I'm angry with Wilson?"

"It gives me greater confidence in your emotional range, that you love someone enough to feel betrayed when they try to leave you," Nolan answered.

House's first instinct was to rail against the very possibility of such an indiscreet and impractical sentiment as _love_ having anything to do with his relationship with Wilson. However, his ire deflated almost as soon as it reached its peak, and he slumped instead. "They won't let me in his room."

"Dr. Wilson is being monitored. Doctor Medina believes that his aggressive episode was an attempt to hurt himself for the first time since he tried to take his life. I agree."

"Hurt himself, or was hurt by those goons with syringes?"

"It's not a perfect system," Nolan agreed. "But the structures we have in place are meant to protect everyone, both staff and patients. This is a situation that needs to be handled with care, especially considering the instigating factor."

House's temper flared again. "Are you blaming me?"

Nolan spread his hands. "I'm inviting you to talk. Do you want to tell me what happened, House?"

House's head fell back against Nolan's chair. He lolled for a moment, chewing over his thoughts. Then the give: "My boss came to see me."

"I know," Nolan said. "I approved the visit. I thought it might motivate you to see that your old life was waiting for you."

A huff, like an exhale burdened with a snort, came out. "Yeah. All the old crap, just hanging out there waiting for me." He raised an eyebrow, daring Nolan to deny it was so. When he continued, it was to say, "She said she referred him. Told me he was dead on a table. They had to restart his heart."

"That's traumatic news. Did James not tell you?"

"Of course not. He's been lecturing me on mental health for years. I already knew he was a hypocrite, but I would never have believed –" He stopped, swallowed. "He lied to me."

"So you confronted him?" Nolan asked.

Housed clenched his teeth, but the anger that had sustained him before was gone now. He admitted, "I yelled at him. Set him off. I can do that. Never seen him lose it with anybody else; not Jimmy, the shining persona of patience and light."

"It sounds as though you resent him," Nolan suggested.

House looked up sharply. "No, or –" He sought an explanation that made sense. "Sure, for the regular things. He walks, I can't. He's adored by all, and I'm not. And he'd definitely win the tiara at the beauty pageant. But…no. I'm smarter, for one thing. Wilson couldn't beat out a paperclip in linear thinking. And he's secretly evil. It balances out."

"From listening to you talk, I'd say you cared about him."

House hadn't forgotten the tale he'd told in the beginning, submitting that they'd only been colleagues. He bit his tongue and reused to be lured more than he already had, even if it was clear that Nolan already understood the lie. Still, he felt he had to say something.

"I hate him."

Nolan had a thousand expression, but most of them were very slight variations of neutral. This one was blatantly sad. With almost offensive gentleness, he said, "House, it's normal to be upset if someone you depend on makes a choice like James did."

"He's still here," House breathed, more to himself than anybody.

"He is, isn't he?" Nolan answered thoughtfully. It caused a little thrill of panic to run down House's back. Had he said too much? But, as always, Nolan managed to surprise him. He walked to his desk and withdrew a memo pad. House watched him scrawl his signature under a short note. He held it out to House with all the aplomb of a golden ticket. "Here."

"What is it?"

"Permission. Go visit Wilson. They should let you in his room. Though I wouldn't expect any privacy."

A little of House's old, easy sarcasm revived slightly. He sneered, "Privacy?"

Nolan gestured. "Go."

House staggered up from the chair and turned toward the door. He was just reaching for the handle when Nolan spoke again.

"Greg." He waited until House looked back. "I know part of you is still angry with him, but your friend is sick. If you've got it in you – and I think you do – show compassion."


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

* * *

Hours before House's meeting with Nolan, the staff had bundled Wilson up, forcing him out of bed and making sure he showered before putting his hands through the sleeves of a clean shirt. An unseeing nurse briskly put a comb through his hair and then glanced over him with a professional eye.

"There," she said. "Much better. Mike, you can help him to the day room. Doctor Medina said he'll buzz when he's ready."

Mike kept a hand on Wilson's arm all the way down the hall. "Steady," he said when Wilson fumbled, his feet crossing over one another awkwardly as he struggled to get his balance back.

"Sorry," he mumbled. His mind still had fuzzy edges, but he was relatively clear headed now. It was the dread that was making him clumsy; he didn't want to go see Medina.

Mike remained his shadow; he hovered nearby while Wilson waited nervously on the couch, and then lead him down the hall to the offices when the summon came. When they stood outside staring at the brass plate – Dr. Anthony Medina, M.D. – he even patted Wilson's arm, a firm sign of comfort that was different from the characteristically empty gestures made by the rest of the staff. He was a good man, Mike, and suited for medicine. From behind the buttresses of Wilson's stressed brain, a small protected inner part hoped that Mike was only doing a rotation here and would move on soon.

"You ready?" Mike asked, and Wilson fought not to actively recoil from the doorknob. It turned easily and then there was the mahogany desk, the droning of the ceiling fan, the judgmental, threatening philodendron. He was passed inside as Medina's eyes flickered up from where he was making notations.

"You can sit down," he said.

Wilson was forced to wait as always, and his eyes wandered over the bookshelves of journals and encyclopedia. On one wall, a large, prominent painting caught his eye. It was a print of _Saturn Devouring his Son_, with the hideous half-formed man tearing the bloody torso of his child in his teeth. There was an engraving fitted below it, set into the heavy frame. It read: "The man eating his child; the mind turning on itself."

Wilson looked at it and almost cringed away from the grotesque image. Who kept something like that on their wall?

The scratching went on deliberately for another moment, until finally the pen went down and Medina took up the papers carefully and set them end to end until they matched perfectly. He lay them down and let his finger tap the surface, a severe, monotonous noise.

"Do you know what this is, James?" he asked.

Wilson fought not to squirm. When he discerned that the man would wait for an answer, he contracted his throat until it squeezed out the word, "No."

"This is a report from the head nurse who was on duty when you had your…episode."

Wilson felt his heart stutter. He wasn't so far gone that he couldn't feel wary, and his body was already readying itself for an attack.

Doctor Medina sighed. "Such progress, and now this. Refusing to take direction. Aggression toward the staff. You put your fingernails in Chris's arms, did you know that? They had to sedate you to keep you from hurting anyone else. I suppose I should have predicted it. You keep it all bottled up inside, don't you, James? Deception is your nature."

House had said that. He said Wilson used lies like House used the truth. Maybe that was why they had connected in the beginning. People smiled at Wilson, but he never let them close. Only House hadn't been put off, only House…

_Liar_. The word stuck. Wilson choked down a wounded sound. _Liar._

"Don't you have something to say about this?" Medina asked, and he was starting to sound cross. His eyes went back to reading. "I spoke to you former employer yesterday, Lisa Cuddy. '_Private.' _That's howshe described you. '_Easy to warm up to, but difficult to know_.' I don't think I'd count on going back to work there, James."

There was a hurt inside that tore open, a very old hurt that had first been inflicted at a boardroom table where a business man with a lust for power had taken Wilson's job, and Cuddy, someone he had counted as a friend, had sat in mute supplication and let him be sacrificed to save House. That had been the first time. Wilson thought he might even have hated her more than House, if he had been capable of hating either of them. Even after Kutner she had…

'_Take care of him,' _she had said. House. Wasn't that what he'd been trying to do?

"I'm a good doctor," he heard himself saying. He clung to that fact like a man might hold onto his last possession after a fire. He couldn't save many of his patients, it was true, but he tried as hard he was able. He put everything into his work. For a long time, he'd used it as a salve for other deficiencies. If that crumbled…

Doctor Medina saw the doubt in his bleak eyes but didn't comment. His knowing was enough.

"I also spoke to your parents."

Wilson's heart rate picked up. "I said I didn't want them to know," he protested. "When I sighed the admission papers –"

Medina's eyes were cold and completely absent of compassion. "After your relapse, I deemed it essential to your recovery. I'm trying to help you, James."

Wilson shook his head, his eyes squeezed shut. He hadn't wanted them to know. They couldn't handle another failure. His father would never be able to look at him again. Wilson thought of Jennifer and her thin red scars, and his own wrists itched. He felt homeless, as homeless as Danny must have felt when his own brother put down the phone in order to cut off his needy voice. And his mother…

Cuddy would not give him his job back once House was well again. His family would avoid speaking with him. Even House, the last screwed-up relationship he had, didn't want to see him anymore. The final words he had said echoed now: _Stay away from me!_

Wilson's head sunk into his hands.

"Your parents told me some things about your childhood," Medina went on, relentless. He read from his notes. "A compulsive crier. Alternately clingy and withdrawn. And prone to sudden, unexplained outbursts of temper."

There were reasons for that. Wilson had never told, and wouldn't. Not even House.

"And then suddenly you became the model boy. Helpful. Everyone's friend. You handled your brother well."

Wilson remembered those difficult years of strain and toil, constantly fearing that he would miss a step and become another burden for his struggling family to bear.

"Everyone thought you were going to do just fine. And then you entered medical school, got divorced, got divorced _again_. It can be hard keeping up appearances, can't it, James? Even when you're an expert liar."

The insinuation, that he had been lying even then, cut straight down to Wilson's heart. They were the same insecurities that House played on – _you're all persona – _but here, now, he felt naked and exposed, unable to defend himself. Once again he asked himself, was it true? He tried to keep the most offensive parts of himself hidden, but did that make him deceptive? Was that the reason people left him?

"I'm not a liar," he said. "I just…."

"We're in my office. I choose the words here, James." Medina sat back and crossed his arms with all the authority of one who believed his word was unassailable.

Wilson was losing it steadily, but he wasn't completely cowed. Shaking his head, he made his voice as firm as he could. "No."

"I think we're going to have to step up your program," Medina said. "If you can't even take responsibility for what you do, we're never going to get to the bottom of this self-serving behavior."

Wilson didn't want to think about what it would mean to accelerate his program. "I was upset," he tried to explain. "I didn't mean to hurt anybody. I just felt like I needed to go outside."

"Why? Did you fight with – " Medina glanced down, and his eyes went suddenly wide. The whites flashed in surprise as he double checked the notes. "Gregory House?"

There was no doubt he knew House; just as with Beasley, the reaction was clear. Anthony Medina clearly loathed House, and it set something burning in Wilson deeper than depression – far deeper than his own self-hatred. He didn't trust people who hated Gregory House. Because House was an ass and disliking him wasn't hard. But people, and especially professionals, didn't _hate_ House unless he had something they didn't, and usually that something was skill.

"House is my friend," he said, because it was true, whether or not House wanted it to be.

Medina actually laughed. "_House_ a misanthropic, miserable, sociopathic drug addict. The closest he can get to friendship is manipulation, and I suspect even that would be hard for him to keep up for long. He isn't capable of caring about anyone."

"You're wrong," Wilson said. He had been there through enough revealing cases, had seen the deep emotional connection that House was capable of making when the conditions were right. His walls were high, but they were high to protect him. House's fault wasn't caring too little. Maybe it had always been that he cared too much.

Medina looked surprised at Wilson's insistence. Hitherto, he had only seen his patient subdued, reticent. His brows knitted in anger as he observed the tight, mistrustful look on Wilson's face. "I'm the psychiatrist, James. If your judgment was trustworthy, do you think you'd be on that side of the desk?"

Medina was capable of using words like weapons, but he had made a mistake aiming them at House. Wilson was no longer intimidated. He was mad, and that had lead to a realization so bright and clear he wondered why he had never seen it before.

"You're just trying to hurt people," he accused, speaking slowly. "Doctor's don't do that. What's wrong with you?"

Doctor Medina stood abruptly and pressed the buzzer on his desk. He spoke into the intercom. "Please send in Mike," he said, and glared at Wilson, who was swaying and white on the uncomfortable wooden chair. He punched it again. "And Chris and Ryan."

* * *

House wasn't allowed to use his visitor's pass until just before curfew. He didn't understand why until he saw Mike the orderly. His face was set rigidly, the terseness of a young man whose sense of righteousness had been offended.

"What happened?" House demanded, but Mike's mouth was tight and he refused to speak. Instead he merely read Nolan's signature with hard eyes and then escorted House down the featureless hall. It had a radiator locked in a steel box and guardrails with metal casings so that there were no recesses an unmonitored patient could use to cause themselves harm. Inside the bathrooms, he knew, the stalls were plexiglass from floor to ceiling. Every fixture was sealed, every piece of furniture bolted down. On the entire floor, not one shoelace or button could be found. It was a suicide ward. House had never let that sink in.

Mike had to use his passcard to open the door. It swung open to a room where the lights were dimmed. "He's been out of it," Mike warned, and his words turned heavy with significance. "Since his session with Doctor Medina this afternoon."

Tense, House nodded and stepped into the room.

"Wilson," he announced himself. He was several steps inside when he saw his friend, and then he froze, every muscle going rigid. He moved jerkily to edge of the bed and touched the padded cuffs, swallowing against a sudden obstruction in his throat. He breathed, "Wilson."

His friend was restrained, his hands and legs fixed at points so that his arms had the appearance of distortion. Under the sheet, he was naked. Nothing left for protection or concealment. But the worst thing – worse even than these physical and psychological structures of control – was the glazed look in Wilson's eyes, doped to the gills yet still so pathetically glad to see him.

"House," Wilson said, his mouth fumbling the word. "You're here."

House felt a wretched wrench of guilt, remembering their last conversation. He stretched his hand over the bed sheet, near enough to feel the warmth of Wilson's shoulder but not close enough to touch. "Wilson," he said. "What the hell happened?"

Some of the light faded then, and House was glad to see it go because it had no context here. Wilson moved his hands restlessly, shifting against the cuffs. "I got in trouble."

"No shit. What did you do?"

A dull pain was added to the already dim reflection in Wilson's eyes. They skipped around the planes of House's face, struggling to make contact. "Maybe," he said. "Maybe I said some bad things."

"To Doctor Medina?" House was starting to connect the dots. Still, he hadn't anticipated the bleakness that changed Wilson's face, or his sudden shudder. He grasped ineffectively for House's hand, hindered by the fetter. Then he tried to curl inward, but he couldn't do that either.

Instead, in total failure, he snuffled loudly, his eyes becoming glassy. "I'm not very good," he rambled. "Nobody stays."

"I'm here, Wilson," House bit out, fiercely, because he was so angry. Angry at his poor friend, and angry with Medina, who was supposed to be helping him. "Did Doctor Medina say that to you?"

"Doctor Medina." Wilson sounded suddenly cross. "I told him not to talk about you. I told him."

Well that explained something. House knew Medina from brief run-ins with him on his floor, and he had heard the condescending way the man spoke to his patients. Leave it to Wilson to sit and listen to someone run him down for weeks and then come out of his shell long enough to defend House.

"Dammit, Wilson," he said. "You chose that moment to get a backbone?"

Wilson's head titled back, eyes staring at the ceiling. His moment of confidence had leaked out of him, like air from a balloon. Tiredly, he said, "House. I don't feel good."

House was terrible at comforting people. Even now, it came awkwardly. "It's alright. You'll feel better soon."

A tear scrapped it's way down the side of Wilson's nose. "Something's wrong with me, House."

"Tons of things," House retorted. Sarcasm was easier. "But I like you that way. You're more interesting than anybody I know."

Even as he said it, House was kicking himself inside. He was remembering the time he had slipped amphetamines into Wilson's coffee and discovered the antidepressants. Wilson might have hidden his pain behind an impenetrable wall of service to others, but this…_this_ had always existed. Cuddy was right; Wilson hadn't been well for a long time, and the signs had all been there.

He had never felt so stupid.

"Tried so hard, but I messed up," Wilson mumbled. "Like Danny. Like my mom."

House didn't know what he was talking about. He had met Mrs. Wilson, and his perception of her had been of a strained, bland woman who had looked through her middle son like he was transparent. Though she had touched Paul, her youngest, and hung on his arm, the only thing he could recall her saying to Wilson was to ask him to mind the roast. After that, House had dismissed her in an effort to rouse the other Wilson men into a fit of outrage. Wilson, his Wilson, had disappeared into the kitchen and House hadn't seen him again until he helped serve everyone supper.

"I'm sorry I came, House," Wilson broke his reverie. "It wasn't just about you. I…I was lonely."

It took everything in House not to roll his eyes. Only Wilson could make something like that come out sounding like both an apology and a confession. He said, "You could have waited a few damn weeks for me to get out of here, but I'm not sorry you came. I'm not mad at you."

Wilson swallowed, his dark eyes blinking slowly. His unusually short hair was messy and untended. The dark line of his cheeks were hollow. He didn't just look drugged. He looked physically and emotionally diminished. It was as though House could finally see the fine lines fissuring his friend's psyche, and it was too late to do anything about it.

"You need to get out of here, Wilson," he said. "You're losing your mind."

"Curfews in ten," Mike said from where he stood at the door, his arms folded. If he was uncomfortable with what he had seen, House didn't give a damn.

"Punishment, or revenge?" House asked as he passed Mike at the door. As a punishment, it was extreme, but if it was revenge it was nothing short of professional failure. It was abuse. House's finger were suddenly itching for transcripts of Wilson's sessions with Medina. He waited while Mike closed the door and locked it with a decisive click.

Like before, there was no answer. But it was a very loud silence.

* * *

The office door wasn't locked. House plunged in without invitation, heedless of the startled patient cringing against the back of a single wooden chair, or the way Dr. Medina's eyebrows flew upwards into his hair before plunging back down in to an angry black line. He stood up and his tie swung forward on it's clip. His pen rolled against the blotter as his hands slammed, palms down, onto the desk's surface. He had already lost his composure.

House challenged him before he had the sense to call for assistance. "You bastard. Do you usually punish your patients for standing up to you, or do you just beat them down into a quivering mush so that they never try? Well, you underestimated Wilson. He might not fight for himself, but you made an enemy out of him by attacking someone else. You'll never get him back under your thumb, not completely. He'll never trust you again."

"House," Medina hissed. "As soon as I saw you name in the file, I should have suspected you had your fingers all over this. You just can't help ruining everything you touch. It's no wonder James hasn't been improving. If I'd known, I would have separated you, for his sake."

"But you didn't know, and that's just one more strike against you, you incompetent boob," House said. "You're a bully masquerading as someone trying to help people. You don't deserve to be called a doctor."

"_I_ don't? And what about you?" Medina had regained some balance; he wasn't boiling over now. He actually laughed. "I remember the notes from his psychiatrist: 'discouraged by a outside source'. Are you the one James has been hiding? Oh, I can see it now. If nothing else, you're charismatic. And just the kind to prey on a weak, flawed person like James."

"You're the one whose been undermining him. He's falling apart," House accused.

"I've been helping him see the reality of his situation. To recognize how he's at fault for what's happened to him. People don't take enough responsibility for their own wellbeing these days. They're used to be pandered to. I'm changing his thinking, breaking him down. And then I'll fix him."

"You arrogant Nazi. That kind of thinking is for the dark ages, and terrorist cells, and cults."

Medina looked at the wild-eyed patient staring at them both in stupefaction. "You can leave now, Mary. We'll reschedule your appointment for later."

The woman was no sooner gone from the room than Medina straightened, carefully folded her hands across his chest in a visible show of arrogance. "Greg," he said.

"_Doctor_ House," the diagnostician snarled.

"Doctor House," Media corrected. "You have no business being involved in the care of another patient. My sessions with James are strictly confidential, and would be even if you weren't currently another patient at this facility." He paused, taking time to meet House's eyes. "I'm his doctor, and that's all you need to know. I'm helping him.

House almost had no words for the his acute frustration he felt at this man's blindness. Hands gripping the back of the chair, he snarled, "What you've been doing isn't helping him, you arrogant, dominating, unstable –"

"Dominating? That is an interesting adjective," Medina said. "As a matter of fact, they all are. In case you've forgotten, I conducted your admitting interview. Do you want to know what I wrote in my notes that day?" House made a resistant noise in his throat, but Dr. Medina ignored him. Instead, he slammed open a cabinet beside his desk and fished through the files. A sheet of paper separated from the others, and Medina recited, "Stubborn and noncompliant. Prone to fits of temper when thwarted. Physically belligerent. Intensely possessive of belongings and personal space. Posturing. Bullying, manipulation, and attempts to seize control. Overtly hostile to social norms."

When Medina finally looked up, it was into House's mute but angry face.

"Sound familiar?" he asked.

House said, "You can't compare my actions to what you're doing."

Dr. Medina was implacable. "I've read your file, House. I heard you tried to kill one of your fellows, and almost killed a patient. I heard you _always_ nearly kill your patients. That's why you came here. Your self-destructive behavior was branching out. It was threatening your job."

"I'm here because I was experiencing hallucinations and I needed to detox in a controlled environment."

"And because you believed yourself to be a possible danger to others."

House didn't want to admit anything to Medina, but the current of their conversation had changed. He felt it tugging irresistibly at his feet, and heard himself saying, "Subconsciously. Maybe. Yes."

"You were afraid of what might happen to your team, your coworkers, while you tried to figure out your own problems," Medina pressed.

"_Yes_."

"But you're not afraid for James?" Medina lobbed at him, a blow that made House's mouth snap shut around an angry retort. It required a few moments of slowly grinding his teeth as his mind turned over the half-inquiry.

Meanwhile, a haunting red smile spread on a face just over Doctor Medina's shoulder. A ghost smile.

"I would never hurt Wilson," he said finally, his voice unnaturally devoid of sarcasm.

Amber cocked her head, and it filled the room with a sound like the vibration of a tuner's key. No, he insisted, directing his thoughts toward her. No part of him could ever bring the kind of harm on Wilson that had been perpetrated here.

"You don't seem sure," Doctor Medina said in response to his sudden shift in demeanor.

House felt a great weariness weighed down on his shoulders. He caressed the silvery aluminum of his cane. "I'm sure."

"Would you like to know what I'm sure of?" Medina asked. "I'm sure your drug abuse only finished the work that nature started. It's only a matter of time before you're a hazard to society, and then they'll do more than institutionalize you. I just hope you won't have a trail of bodies behind you before they finally put you away. People like James."

He reached over and pushed the intercom.

"Now get out. I'm sending a nurse to escort you to solitary."


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

* * *

House spent eight hours in solitary before Nolan overruled Medina's order and they came to let House out. Four hours of seething rage, one hour of denial. Three hours for doubt to seep in where the room's white blasted corners merged with the tumult of his overstressed mind. He was haggard when he finally returned to his room, mechanically asking to use a razor.

They brought it to him with his medicine in a cup. House sneered before he realized it was just his regular tablets – ibuprofen and Nolan's antidepressants. The antipsychotics had been absent for awhile now. Begrudgingly, he swallowed the pills and tried not to think as he laid out on the sheets of his bed.

His head was spinning. Medina's prediction had lodged in his brain. He had said what Nolan wouldn't, but what House had always suspected from the moment he saw Amber singing in front of that piano. That the drugs had left their mark. He wasn't fit for medicine anymore. That it was only a matter of time before he more or less deliberately killed someone.

How had it gotten so complicated? Wilson, of course. Always Wilson. It had been Wilson since the infarction, when Stacy left and he didn't. Wilson, who begged him with his whole body and a ruined marriage to please, please live.

'_Well, I did,' _he thought, '_and look where it got me. I'm in pain. A pariah. And now I'm being haunted by your damned girlfriend.'_

"Yes," she said. Lovely as always, she bent over his bed and said insistently, "Yes, it's his fault. Who's to say it wasn't the deep brain stimulation and not the drugs. He insisted. He would have killed you if it could have saved me."

"Don't flatter yourself. I've been around a lot longer than _you_," House said.

"Do you think he really wants to go back to the way it was before?" Amber asked. "He'd rather us be normal."

"I _was_ normal before you."

"You were never normal. And what if you need me? What if I've been a part of your process all along?" Pills spilled from Amber's hand. "Or what if the Vicodin has?"

It wasn't the first time such a thing had occurred to him. House had been an excellent doctor in his prime, before the infarction had stripped away all the pleasures of life. However, it was only after that, with the Vicodin and all his restraints gone, that he had become the world-famous diagnostician that brought people and government organizations and criminals to his door. Would that, could that go away?

"He's never approved," Amber said. "It's always Wilson, sweet Wilson, in the way."

"You're wrong," House said.

"You're wrong," she echoed.

He snarled, "I won't let you hurt him."

Amber leaned over the bed until her blond hair brushed his nose. "You won't be able to help it."

* * *

House's eyes snapped open, and it was morning. Every muscle in his body ached. If he'd slept, it had not been well. His feet dragged on the way to the bathroom, and then he was staring into eyes so darkly ringed they might have been bruised.

"_You_ look like crap!" Alvie exclaimed from behind him. House ignored him; by this time, he had it nearly down to an art. While his roommate rambled on gamely, he wandered up to the dispensary.

"Difficult night?" the nurse asked. She had never entirely forgiven him for his first weeks on the ward, but her eye was professional now as she glanced over his haggard posture.

"Just fine, thanks," House minced, and snatched up his pills. Just the damn ibuprofen. He clutched at his thigh when it sent a responsive pulse of agony down his leg. He slammed the empty cup back down. "It's not enough this time."

The change was almost instantaneous; her face closed. She must have heard at least a dozen requests for extra meds every day. "I'll speak to the doctor," she said.

It required every ounce of House's willpower not to throw his cane across the room, and that only because he knew it would be taken away and he could barely stand right now. He hobbled over to the couch and almost fell into a sitting position. His quavering muscles jumped, and he clutched them with white fingers, kneading and hunched over until the spasm passed. It did so only after ages, and afterward, he fell back against the headrest, drenched in perspiration. With trembling hands, he pressed against his forehead, wincing at the dull throb. Exhaustion sat heavily on his shoulders.

But though his body felt broken, his brain raced on, continuing to restlessly churn. The possible madness seemed very close, like a living thing, and the image of Amber was burned into his eyelids. He couldn't remember what she'd said, but her smile loomed large in his imagination as though she was right there in front of him.

Finally, he couldn't stay seated any longer. In spite of his protesting muscles, he struggled to his feet. But where could he go? There were no cases here to distract him. No bourbon or secret stash to numb the pain. He growled, startling a timid patient sitting near him; she scurried away while House thumped his cane on the floor. No options.

By chance he jammed his hand down into his pocket, a pocket he had not had a week before. That was when something crunched against the tips of his fingers.

He brought out a folded paper from a yellow memo pad, with Nolan's name making a sloping trail along the bottom. Above it, in unspecified terms, was House's pass to visit Wilson in his ward. Mike had forgotten to take it from him, or maybe he had chosen not to. It was not dated.

He was sweating as he made is way down the passageway and then the stairs. He had to catch his breath while the broad-shouldered nurse examined the paper. Finally, she pursed her lips and let him enter. There was a group therapy session finishing up in the main room. It took House a moment to spot Wilson among them, because he look so much like all the others.

House diagnosed them as his eyes fell: pills, pills, a cutter, a cast on the leg of one who jumped. Assisted asphyxiation. There was one man tilted back in a wheelchair, unmoving, his face and jaw all but obscured. House felt his skin crawl; revolver, no intension to survive. Yet somehow he had.

He finally caught Wilson's eye, and the man straightened. He didn't quite smile, but his mouth made a strained attempt to turn up at the edges, and when they dismissed he followed House down the marginally empty hall without question. He seemed tender footed, careful of the pads of his feet. "Tingly," he said by way of explanation and offered a lopsided smile. House's leg gave a vicious twinge.

Wilson seemed to get a good look at him then, and his face fell. "You look terrible," he said, and for some reason the comment made House grit his teeth.

"Didn't sleep," he responded tersely, although he didn't know if that was true. Part of him wanted the specter of Amber to be a dream, as much as another part wanted her to be real.

"You're hurting a lot, too," Wilson observed. His brow had become a long line, knitting his thick eyebrows together. "And I can't –"

House knew what he couldn't. Couldn't help, couldn't fix it. No handy prescription pad around to sooth all things between them. A curious anger he didn't understand came over House, and every nervous glance Wilson directed at him only made his chest tighten more.

"Quit looking at me like a mooncalf, Wilson," he finally snapped. "I'm fine."

The man jumped, startled by the sudden attack. It was ridiculous. House felt a flare, and his hands tightened into fists.

"House, you're acting funny," Wilson said. "Is something wrong?"

Is – is something wrong?

He erupted, "How can you even ask that? Look around you, Wilson. We're stuck in this hellhole of people whose usefulness to society has expired." The failed suicide in the wheelchair flashed in his mind and he wondered if that wasn't him – a ruined hulk beyond all recovery that should have been allowed to die. Maybe it had always been that way.

"House." Wilson sounded pained. He dared to make contact. "That's not true. You're getting better. Soon we'll be able to go home."

House jerked free. It made him lose his balance, and he had to lurch to grab the wall to keep from falling. A screech of pain that turned off his vision for a split second lanced through his entire being. Breathlessly, he asked, "And what if I can't go back? What if I need the pills to do my job?"

Wilson's face was a picture of confusion. "What?"

House let the doubts spill out. "What if they're part of how I work? What if I get out and I'm only…"

"Normal?" Wilson wondered out loud. The noise and confusion swirling and churning in House's brain came to an abrupt stop. He looked into Wilson's pale face.

"What did you say?"

Wilson's lips parted; he ran his hand through his hair. "I used to justify anything you did by telling myself that the lives you saved balanced out the harm you caused. Hell, I even told Tritter that, but I realize now that the truth is…" He ducked his eyes. "The truth is, I don't care how many lives you save, House. Even if you never diagnose anyone again, I'd still rather you be whole and alive."

A feminine whisper from somewhere deep in House's brain said, "See? I told you so."

Chemical pressure built beneath the geyser of House's composure, until finally the earth gave way and the vitriol come rising up, scalding hot and loaded with debris. He exploded. "That's the truth, finally, isn't it? You're _glad_ I'm loosing my mind."

"What? No!"

House had a sudden vivid memory of walking into Wilson's office, having just realized he'd lost en entire day to vivid sensory hallucinations that he, even now, could barely discern form reality. House turned his eyes away from the memory of his friend's stricken face. He didn't want to see it.

"I don't believe you."

"House," Wilson said. "I would have done anything to help you.

"Pretty words," House sneered. "You're full of pretty words. Enough to make people sing your praises while you pump them full of poison."

There was sweat dampening the edge of Wilson's hairline. "That's not fair. It's my job. It makes me feel like crap, but it's the only way to threat cancer."

"I'd like to know how you'd feel on the other side of the IV needle. Maybe you wouldn't even go through with it without a silver tongue to convince _you_ to spend what remains of your life useless and puking. Well, you aren't going to convince me. I'd rather die than for my life to be over."

"Don't say that," Wilson begged.

But House couldn't stop. All the fears that he had hoarded up for so long now spilled over, the things between them he'd never shared but always harbored. He said, "You don't care if I lost everything. You'd love it if I turned out to be just as stupid as you."

"No." His friend was shaking his head. "I don't want you to change."

"Change! Of course you want me to change. Everybody wants me to change. You and Cuddy have been clamoring on about it for years!"

"I never wanted this." Wilson's entire posture was filled with grief, taking House back to that Christmas Even when everything had changed between them. When neither could deny any more that there was no going back from the damage Vicodin had done to House or to their friendship. Wilson spoke, "I've been scared to death for you. I've had nightmares about a call in the middle of the night, telling me your liver is failing. I've felt for your pulse after a thousand imaginary ODs. I've been terrified of answering the phone, thinking it might be the police, or the emergency room, or the morgue. But I've never wanted you here."

"I don't believe you," House refused to listen, refused to hear. Instead, he accused, "Look at you. All these years, you've been lecturing me, and now you can barely look me in the eye."

"I don't know what you want from me," Wilson said.

"I want you to admit what we're really doing here," House said. "I want you to tell me your sorry."

"Sorry?" Wilson sounded at a loss. "Why?"

"Because this is your fault!"

"My –" Wilson stammered.

"The deep brain stimulation," House counted off. "The stress I put on _my_ brain, because _you_ asked me to. Because you never had the guts to really help me!"

Quiet, too quiet. For years they had bantered back and forth. For years they had played this game. Where had his fight gone now? Almost inaudibly, Wilson asked, "You really think this is my fault?"

"_Of course it is_," House hissed. "Why else would I be hallucinating _her_."

The pronoun rang out in the air like the crack of a firearm discharging. It filled up all the spaces, but the silence it left behind was worse. House stared across the breech between them, feeling hot, twisted agony resonating in pulses form his leg. His spiking headache made him feel nauseated and sick. Sick with anger.

He said, "Maybe next time you try to kill yourself, you should be a little more decisive than swallowing a handful of pills with a trained intensivist waiting in the wings to come to your rescue."

Then House turned his back and stalked, limping, away.

* * *

The small noises of the ward were gone. The bump of the trolley as it hit the raised thresholds of the fire doors, the frenetic murmuring of patients, the hum of the staff's conversation. The beep of a keycard, the distant TV. Wilson didn't hear any of it.

He didn't feel his body either, moving without conscious decision. A nurse was in one of the rooms, busily stripping the beds. She was rushed, and she wasn't watching the trolley.

Wilson pulled out one of the pillow cases and kept on walking. The bathroom door would be open. He could already smell the chemicals; it was cleaning day.

* * *

House returned the files with a thunk onto Nolan's desk – all of it, the therapy notes, transcripts, everything. "I've been thinking about what you said," he began and searched for the chair to guide his way down. "About emotional range."

Nolan sat down the patient file he had been reviewing, removed his reading glasses, and gave House his full attention. "When I said that, I told you I was relieved to see you react like a human being to your friend's condition."

"Yes, and then you told me that you didn't think I damaged my brain," House said.

Nolan didn't speak, gauging his emotion. Finally, he said, "You're upset."

"Brilliant," House snipped. "It's like you can see into my mind."

Nolan was beginning to look concerned. He clasped his fingers together. "What is this about, House?"

The former diagnostician rubbed his forehead, wanting to pace but knowing it would be too painful. Instead, he massaged his thigh, wishing the ache would subside long enough for him to just _think_. Finally, he admitted, "I haven't stopped seeing her. Not since the detox. Not ever."

"You mean…this woman, your former fellow –"

"Amber. Yes, I'm seeing her," House said, scrapping his fingers through his scalp. "She talks to me when I sleep, and I see her when I'm awake. She stalks Wilson."

"And you think it's your subconscious, or damage from the drugs, or the electricity."

House shook his head. "I've seen my brain in a dozen different scans since then. The tests are all normal."

"What then?" Nolan asked. "What are you afraid of, House?"

The anger surged up again, but this time, instead of a friend standing there, exposed, ready to take blame, there was only this virtual stranger, this _doctor_. Yet, though he had Nolan had started off on such shaky ground, some kernel of mutual respect had grown up between them. Enough for House, in this moment of crisis, to finally say the words, the true words. The ones he'd been haunted by all along.

"I've mentally devolved. Something…something isn't the same. A mental break. Insanity. Call it what you like, but I'm not the way I was before. Maybe it was the Vicodin. Maybe it was some bizarre chemical interaction that got rerouted. All I know is that whatever made me…_me_ is broken now."

"What you mean is that you're afraid it's broken now," Nolan clarified. "House, as a scientist, you should know better than to adopt a theory without evidence."

"Evidence! What kind of evidence do you need?" Furiously, House snapped into Nolan's face. "I'm not on narcotics. I'm not drinking, or doing drugs. I'm taking your damn SSRIs. What other explanation can there be?"

"House, I need you to listen to me."

Enervated, House turned.

Nolan said, "You're not the first savant that has sat across from me in this room, telling me that they lost something. People with creative minds, minds whose value is imbedded in some skill so closely related to genius that even _they_ don't know how it works, it can create a paranoia of doing something which will take away that unknown element and leave them barren."

"Paranoia? That's your brilliant deduction?" House demanded.

"Do you think you're too developed for paranoia? If history is to be believed, it's one of the fatal flaws of many geniuses. What I still believe is that if you're willing to accept your _grief_, resolve your _guilt_, and manage your other issues, the strain will ease, and you'll eventually get well. You could return to your job, your home. But we can't go any further until you accept what I'm telling you now. You're not _broken_, Greg."

As though his strings had been cut, House collapsed backward against his chair, letting the air in his lungs out with a rush. He was aching, his leg throbbing, but even more than that, he was tired. Tired of the constant battle that Mayfield had been. Tired of the war with _her_, for his own mind. Tired of taking it out on the only friend he had who was stupid enough and loyal enough and _damaged _enough to follow him into a nightmare like this one.

Still sagging, he admitted, "I fought with Wilson. I blamed him for what happened."

Frowning, Nolan said, "That doesn't seem very logical."

"I was in pain," House said, his old standby. His fingers bore down into the damaged muscle. "I was hurting, and he was right there. Like he's always there."

"Hm." Again with the eloquent 'hm's. Nolan asked, "Have you thought about apologizing?"

House had been forced to give a lot of thought to apologies lately. Beasley had challenged them to write a letter to someone they had genuinely hurt, to rebuild a bridge he had damaged by seeking forgiveness. Wilson had flashed into his mind instantly, backlit like one of those catholic candles with an image frosted on the glass. Which was absurd. Wilson wasn't catholic.

He'd written Beasley's damn letter to some guy he'd known in med school instead. But he hadn't stopped thinking about apologies since he'd seen Wilson strapped to his bed and realized how one-sided he'd let their friendship become. Things hadn't always been like that. He wished he could go back in time.

"House?"

"Yeah, yeah," House said. "Will you let me see him?"

"I think you need to sleep on this. We're at a turning point, where no amount of words will do anything. From here on out, you're going to have to want to make changes. To _risk _changes."

"I'm tired of hurting people," House said, the weariness slipping in his voice. "At least the ones who don't deserve it."

"It starts with letting it be okay to show kindness to yourself," Nolan suggested. "You're an unforgiving taskmaster of your own mind. There's a saying: 'Be good to yourself. Be patient. Be kind. Be forgiving. After all, you're all you've got.' I've always found a certain psychological truth there."

"I hate platitudes," House growled. It was another thing he had always persecuted Wilson for.

But Nolan wasn't Wilson, and he only shrugged. "Sometimes a platitude is a truth so basic that a personal struggles to accept it."

House picked up his cane. "Maybe."

* * *

House was deep in thought as he trudged down the corridor toward Ward Six's day room. There was a pair of nurses standing against the guardrail talking, and House's ears pricked up automatically when he heard the tone of gossip.

"Did you hear that code called? It was Ward Four."

"How did it happen? The patients are supposed to be under close watch down there. I can't see how anyone could get anything."

"Laundry trolley left unattended. There'll be a pink slip for somebody and a refresher training session for the rest of us after that."

The other man groaned. "There goes my Saturday. He hang himself then?"

"If you can believe. Hardly anything to hang on down there. Guy was really clever about it. Tied a pillowcase into some kind of jam in the commode. They don't know how long he wasn't breathing."

"God! No dignity in that kind of exit, poor bastard. I've never even heard of that one before. How did he even think of it?"

House was frozen. He couldn't have moved if he tried.

"Jefferson said he was a doctor before. Some big shot from Princeton. A doctor would know all kinds of ways."

"I wonder what got into his head. Poor bastard."

House had not moved so fast since the ketamine reprieve. He didn't even know he was still capable of moving that fast.

"Nolan!" He banged on the office door, screaming, "Nolan!"

* * *

Author's Note: Nolans' quotation is attributed to H. Jackson Brown. The final chapter may take a few days; it's pretty unpolished still. Please take the time to let me know what stood out to you in this chapter in your review. Thank you.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine**

* * *

House had one more meeting with Nolan, but not in his office. He refused to leave the infirmary, and some kind of permission must have been given because aside from a few disapproving looks from the duty nurse, no one tried to kick him out. Nolan came to see him there, carrying a pixie cup.

"There's a two milligram tablet of Valium, if you want it," Nolan said as House pinched the pills with his fingers, hard-eyed, evaluating each to be sure it was nothing that would allow them to take him away from Wilson.

To show Nolan what he thought of the Valium, he flicked the pill across the room with his thumb, listening for the satisfying _plink_ing sound as it ricocheted off several surfaces. After that, he just glared.

Nolan sighed and pulled up a stool. At least he wasn't stupid enough to join House on the edge of Wilson's bed. House was expecting him to say something bland, like "Are you okay?"

Instead, he asked, "Are you regretting this now? All of it, admitting yourself to Mayfield, the detox?"

House almost didn't answer. His throat felt swollen from not talking during the long vigil. Finally, he rasped. "I came here because I almost killed Chase. Subconsciously, I took an action that would have resulted in him being dead."

Another doctor might have spoke, encouraging him for seeking help, but Nolan merely waited. House looked at Wilson and the padded cuffs around his wrists even now.

"I was angry with him. I think I've been angry with him since Tritter."

Nolan knew all about Tritter and what had finally pressured Wilson into that betrayal. _Betrayal._ In spite of everything that had come before – the prescription pad, the bank account, the impounding, the abandonment, the theft, the punch – the sense of being betrayed had been the most powerful he had ever felt. Nobody had _ever_ let him down like Wilson, because nobody had ever _been_ there for him like Wilson. Not even Stacy had a record like that, or Cuddy. And though he had dismissed it, House was starting to realize he'd never really gotten over it.

"I've been punishing him, trying to make him sorry."

"For hurting you?" Nolan wondered.

"Yeah."

"It doesn't seem like it's been a one-way street."

No, House could admit that now, though still not easily. He could look back and see why Tritter had called his position one of total selfishness. Yet Wilson had been messed up long before House even met him. They had built their entire friendship off of their compatible psychoses. But it had _worked_. For the longest time, it had worked for them.

His hand clinched around the bed sheet. "Will he be alright?"

"You're the 'real' doctor, House," Nolan said.

"Damn you. You know what I meant."

Wilson, for the second time, had tried to take his life. Before that, he'd gotten admitted to a mental hospital because he was lonely – a move that House now realized was not just stupid, but literally insane. They had both believed Wilson came for his friend, but now it was clear that it wasn't only House who had reached a crisis and fallen over the edge.

All these thoughts passed through House's mind while Nolan watched Wilson, who was corpse-pale against the pillows. Except for the ligature marks. Those were black around his neck.

"Obviously, it isn't the same thing as before," he said. "The first attempt was passive, but this…"

House growled, but didn't interrupt.

"He needs support," Nolan said, "and not an uncomfortable, obligatory pat on the shoulder. He needs someone to care."

"And then?" House asked.

"And then…you'll have to wait and see."

* * *

House dozed off propped stiffly against the back of the medical bed. A shift of the mattress woke him, and when he blinked he saw Wilson's head tilted back, his barely cognizant eyes skittering around House's face.

They stilled when he moved, and Wilson whispered hoarsely. "Hey."

"Hey." There didn't seem to be anything else to say. Finally, House swallowed and said, "You swallowed pills to get here. You put them in your mouth and you swallowed them, alone in your apartment, where you and Amber used to sleep."

Sticky tears Wilson couldn't hide began to roll down his cheeks, not with the restraints holding him to the bed. House pulled a tissue from a Klenex box and rubbed his face dry.

House said, "It was real, wasn't it?"

The depression, the therapy and the drugs he had mocked. It amazed him that he'd ever had any faith in the coping mechanisms of an oncologist who kept mementos of dead patients scattered all over his office. _Only_ his dead patients.

"I kept seeing her," Wilson said, going on despite House's sudden, sharp look. "Socks in the laundry. That damned mug. You weren't there. I kept thinking it was my fault. The deep brain stimulation… I hurt you, didn't I?"

He had done that procedure for Wilson, so they could both have peace of mind. Funny how peace was the last thing it had brought to either of them.

"I'm…" Wilson started. "I'm so…"

House slammed his hand down over Wilsons, so hard it could never have been called gentle. He squeezed until both their knuckles went white. "Shut up, Wilson," he said.

Wilson's fingers moved weakly, clinging. His eyes closed. "Don't leave me here," he pleaded.

"I'm not leaving you," House answered. After all they'd done, both to and for each other, they deserved this strange, screwed up thing they had between them. It was all that was left now, and House would be damned if he kept digging a grave for it.

It was time to put down the shovel.

* * *

He went while Wilson was asleep, smuggled past the threat of dreams by the mercy of pharmaceutical intervention. He used the phone card privilege he had earned, and held the plastic cradle to his heavy head while his fingers punched the numbers.

"House?" Her voice was groggy, confused. It was early in the morning. She was probably hanging awkwardly off the side of her bed, wearing the ridiculously inappropriate bed clothes he knew she favored.

He didn't waste any time, offered no explanation. "Get us out of here," he demanded.

"House."

"Both of us, Cuddy. This place is a hellhole."

* * *

The decision to seal Amber's apartment hadn't been discussed. All the photographs of Amber were gone too, systematically packed away until the memory became less damaging. Wilson had agreed they weren't healthy to have out now, for either of them.

They found someplace neutral, someplace to find solid ground again. In the beginning, it was hard. There were words burned into House's mind – "Maybe next time you should" – which sometimes made him struggle out of sweat-soaked sheets and limp down the hall to check that Wilson was still breathing. They had both nearly lost something of value, and the very thought of that loss still haunted them both.

The cookout had been Wilson's idea, a farewell of sorts to the people with whom they had once worked. House wasn't interested in something so paltry, but Wilson's therapist was supportive, and so he went along with it. It had taken a lot of effort to find someone House had not only deemed competent but Wilson had also trusted.

Yet as he stared at the green grass and the milling people, he thought, _'That doesn't mean I have to like it.'_

One particular voice of greeting made the feeling all the more acute: "House, there you are. I've been looking for you."

House braced himself. "Cuddy."

She was carrying a drink and offered a nervous smile. "You look good," she said weakly. "You both do."

House looked over at Wilson, greeting Chase by the tables, his thin hand extending to return a handshake with barely a hesitation. Then, as though catching his eye, Wilson turned to House and Cuddy and flashed a grin that looked as brittle as matchsticks.

House turned back to the sizzling grill, tucking in his severe frown. He knew how Wilson looked. In the weeks since they returned from Mayfield, the bruises had faded and things had gotten better, but Wilson still wasn't himself. Perversely, House had never had such strong incentive to keep Vicodin out of the house.

"We're better," he answered. For him, it meant no more hallucinations. It had meant a reality check, and a change he had vowed to upkeep. Sitting beside that bed in the Mayfield clinic, he had thought about all the times he'd made Wilson sit like that, and he'd had to stagger to a bedpan.

"You know your job is waiting for you," she said softly. "Foreman will be unhappy, but he knows it's coming."

House had known this. Wilson had known it, too. He'd said it to the counselor, who he'd told the story of what he'd done, of how easy it had been – and of how no one was holding open a department for him.

Angrily, House flipped one of the steaks, dislodging a piece of fat and sending up a plume of black smoke. Tersely, he said, "I've already told you we won't be coming back."

Cuddy's fingers flexed around the plastic cup. "You did say. But what are you going to do instead?"

The doubt in her eyes was confirmation for the hours of counseling, during which he had concluded that he could not to put himself back in an environment of people who knew and expected the worst of him. He used the tongs to avoid looking at her. "We're leaving on a road trip, soon. We have a few stops planned, but no solid destination. It's a vacation."

"And when you get back?"

"Research for me." House had found what he hoped was a job with all the technical challenge he might require, and though he sometimes doubted it would be enough – sometimes so strongly he had to physically leave the apartment to avoid the temptation to return in to the cabinet one more time – he was going to make it work.

As for Wilson, he didn't know. They'd talked about some things: long-term care, consulting, or maybe the Make a Wish Foundation, but nothing seemed right yet. It wouldn't be cancer, at least not right now.

It was time to take a break from death.

"We're moving on, Cuddy," House said definitively, and he hoped that would be enough for her to get the idea so that he wouldn't have to get ugly.

He was surprised when she smiled at him, a sad smile, but still a smile. "Okay, House. I – we just want you to know we'll be here if you need us. You still have friends in Princeton."

Maybe. Maybe someday. But for now… House laid out the last of the food onto a plate and hollered across the yard, "Hey, Wilson! Better come and see if these meet you immaculate standard!"

He caught Wilson's eye, saw him raise an eyebrow, and then watched as he said something to Chase and headed over to where House waited.

House's mother had once told him the story of a person who, having discovered a valuable pearl, sold everything he had to buy it. The moral had been that, sometimes, one precious thing could be worth everything else. At the time a young Greg had scoffed, but as he looked now at Wilson standing beside him poking dubiously at the cooked meat – fragile perhaps, like their friendship, but still alive – he did not scoff. Not anymore.

For now, there was still a foundation to build on, and neither he nor Wilson were going to take it for granted again.

* * *

Author's Note: It's interesting to look back on the series as I come to the end of this story, a piece or writing I started almost five years ago and am now finishing only after _House M.D._ is over. I've gone back and forth about how I feel about House eventually falling into bad habits again as Season Six ended. Part of me always raged to the heavens, why can't they all just be happy? The answer given by the writers was, of course, that it wouldn't be _House_, and I understand that. Still, resolution is something I always wanted for this series, and as I brought _What Lurks in Man_ to a close, I was imaging a good future. In my mind, with the cameras no longer driving the need for continuing dramatic tension, House and Wilson finally find fulfillment and live out normal, content, dysfunctional lives and die from old age. So there. :)

For those who have taken the time to leave a review, thank you very much for your support. You are appreciated!


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